“Well, we shall see when they do meet,” said Lady Enid, throwing a look of keen curiosity at the astronomer. “I rather think—” here she lowered her voice and whispered in the Prophet’s ear—“I rather think Sir Tiglath wishes to try if he can murder Malkiel. Do you believe he could bring it off?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered the Prophet, with stony indifference. “Good-night to you!”
“But we want to come in,” cried Lady Enid.
“Young man,” roared Sir Tiglath, “the old astronomer will not leave this house till he has searched it from attic to cellar.”
“I am sorry,” replied the Prophet, “but I cannot permit my grandmother’s servants or wine to be disturbed at such an hour. If you wish to murder Malkiel the Second, I shall not prevent you, but he is not here.”
“Then where is he?” cried Lady Enid.
“I don’t know. And now—”
The Prophet stepped back into the hall, and was about to close the door unceremoniously—having, as he intended, ceased to be a gentleman—when Lady Enid caught sight of the round and fixed eyes of Gustavus glaring out into the night from behind his master. The appalling feminine instinct, which makes woman the mistress of creation, suddenly woke within her, and she cried out in a piercing voice,—
“Malkiel’s in the house, and Gustavus knows it!”
She spoke these words with such conviction that the Prophet spun round, top-wise, and stared at the unfortunate flunkey, who instantly fell upon his knee-breeches and stammered out,—