And--and if Mrs.
Merillia should ask for me say I'm--say I'm busy--er--writing."
Mr. Ferdinand moved a step backward.
"Master Hennessey!" he cried in a choked voice. "I, a London butler, and
you ask me to--!"
"No, no. I beg your pardon, Mr. Ferdinand. Simply say I'm busy. That
will be quite true. I shall be--very busy."
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Ferdinand with a stern and at length successful
effort to conquer his outraged feelings.
He wavered heavily away to fetch the tea, while the Prophet, like a
guilty thing, stole towards the library. When he drew near to the door
he heard a somewhat resounding hubbub of conversation proceeding
within the chamber. He distinguished two voices. One was the hollow
and sepulchral organ of Malkiel the Second, the other was a heavy and
authoritative contralto, of the buzzing variety, which occasionally
gave an almost professional click--suggesting mechanism--as the speaker
passed from the lower to the upper register of her voice. As the Prophet
reached the mat outside the door he heard the contralto voice say,--
"How are we to know it really is only ankles?"
The voice of Malkiel the Second replied plaintively,--
"But the gentleman who opened the door and--"
The contralto voice clicked, and passed to its upper register.
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