It was true, for Lady Enid had scarcely stayed to speak to the Prophet, having hurried out in the hope of discovering who were the "two parties" he had been entertaining on the ground floor.
Mrs.Merillia dropped the subject.
"Good-night, Hennessey," she said."Go to bed at once.You look quite tired.I am so thankful you have given up that horrible astronomy."The Prophet did not reply, but, as he went out of the room, he knew, for the first time, what criminals with consciences feel like when they are engaged in following their dread profession.
As he walked across the landing he heard a clock strike eleven.He started, hastened into his room, tore off his coat, replaced it with a quilted smoking-jacket, sprang lightly to his table, seized a planisphere, or star-map, which he had succeeded in obtaining that night from a small working astronomer's shop in the Edgeware Road, and, mindful of the terms of his oath and the decided opinion of Robert Green, scurried hastily, but very gingerly, down the stairs.This time Mrs.Merillia did not hear him.She had indeed become absorbed in a new romance, written by a very rising young Montenegrin who was just then making some stir in the literary circles of the elect.
Very surreptitiously the Prophet tripped across the hall and reached the stout door which gave access to the servants' quarters.But here he paused.Although he had lived in Mrs.Merillia's most comfortable home for at least fifteen years, he had actually never once penetrated beyond this door.It had never occurred to him to do so.Often he had approached it.Quite recently, when Mrs.Fancy Quinglet had broken into tears on the refusal of Sir Tiglath Butt to burst according to her prediction, he had handed her to this very portal.But he had never passed through it, nor did he know what lay beyond.No doubt there was a kitchen, very probably the mysterious region of watery activities commonly known as a scullery, quite certainly a butler's pantry.But where each separate sanctum lay, and what should be the physiognomy of each one the Prophet had not the vaguest idea.As he turned the handle of the door he felt like Sir Henry Stanley, when that intrepid explorer first set foot among the leafy habitations of the dwarfs.
As the door opened the Prophet found himself in a large apartment whose walls were decorated with the efforts of those great painters who feed the sentimental imaginations of the masses in the beautiful Christmas numbers of our artistic day.Enchanting little girls and exceedingly human dogs observed his entrance from every hand, while such penetrating and suggestive legends as "Don't bite!" "Mustn't!""Naughty!" "Would 'ums?" and the like, filled his mind with the lofty thoughts so suitable to the Christmas season.Over the mantelpiece was a /Cook's Almanac for the Home/, decorated in bright colours, a /Butler's own book/, bound in claret-coloured linen, and a large framed photograph of Francatelli, that immortal /chef/ whose memory is kept green in so many kitchens, and whose recipes are still followed as are followed the footprints of the great ones in the Everlasting Sands of Time.One corner of the room Gustavus had made his own, and here might be seen his tasteful what-not and his little library--neatly arranged unabridged farthing editions of Drummond's /Ascent of Man/, Mill's /Liberty/, Crampton's /Origin of Self-Respect/, Barlow's /APhilosophical Examination into the Art and Practice of Tipping and Receiving Tips/, and other volumes suitable for an intellectual footman's reading.An eight-day clock, which was carefully and lovingly wound up by the prudent Mrs.Fancy Quinglet every morning and evening, snored peacefully in a recess by the hearth, and, from a crevice near the window, the bright, intelligent eyes of a couple of well-developed black-beetles--mother and son--contentedly surveyed the cheerful scene.
