MRS.MERILLIA HEATS THE POKER

When Mr.Sagittarius, running at his fullest speed, emerged from Zoological House, wearing the hat and coat that the saturnine little clergyman had left behind him, the night was damp and gusty.As he hastened down the drive, and the sound of twenty guitars, playing "Oh would I were a Spaniard among you lemon groves!" died away in the lighted mansion behind him, he heard the roaring of the beasts in the gardens close by.In the wet darkness it sounded peculiarly terrific.

He shuddered, and, holding up Mr.Ferdinand's trousers with both hands, hurried onward through the mire, whither he knew not.His only thought was that all was now discovered and that his life was in danger.Awoman's vanity had wrecked his future.He must hide somewhere for the night, and get away in the morning, perhaps on board some tramp steamer bound for Buenos Ayres, or on a junk weighing anchor for Hayti or Java, or some other distant place.Vague memories of books he had read when a boy came back to him as he ran through the unkempt wilds of the Regent's Park.He saw himself a stowaway hidden in a hold, alone with rats and ships' biscuits.He saw himself working his way out before the mast, sent aloft in hurricanes on pitch-black nights, or turning the wheel the wrong way round and bringing the ship to wreck upon iron-bound coasts swarming with sharks and savages.The lions roared again, and the black panthers snarled behind their prison bars.He thought of the peaceful waters of the river Mouse, of the library of Madame, of the happy little circle of architects and their wives, of all that he must leave.

What wonder if he dropped a tear into the muddy road? What wonder if a sob rent the bosom of Mr.Ferdinand's now disordered shirt front? On and on Mr.Sagittarius--or Malkiel the Second, as he may from henceforth be called--went blindly, on and on till the Park was left behind, till crescents gave way to squares, and squares to streets.He passed an occasional policeman and slunk away from the penetrating bull's-eye.He heard now and then the far-off rattle of a cab, the shrill cry of a whistle, the howl of a butler summoning a vehicle, the coo of a cook bidding good-night to the young tradesman whom she loved before the area gate.And all these familiar London sounds struck strangely on his ear.When would he hear them again? Perhaps never.He stumbled on blinded with emotion.

Dogs, we know are guided by a strange instinct to find their homes even by unfamiliar paths.Pigeons will fly across wide spaces and drop down to the wicker cage that awaits them.And it would appear that prophets are not without a certain faculty that may be called topographical.For how else can the following fact be explained? Malkiel the Second, after apparently endless wandering, found himself totally unable to proceed further.His legs gave way beneath him.His breath failed.His brain swam.He reeled, stretched forth his hands and clutched at the nearest support.This chanced to be a railing, wet, slimy, cold.He grasped it, leaned against it, and for a few moments remained where he was in a sort of trance.Then, gradually, full consciousness returned.He glanced up and beheld the black garden of a square.Somehow it looked familiar.He seemed to know those shadowy, leafless trees, the roadway between him and them, even the pavement upon which his boots--his own boots--were set.His lack-lustre eyes travelled to the houses that bordered the square, then to the house against whose area railings he was leaning, and he started with amazement.For he was in Berkeley Square, leaning against the railing of number one thousand.He gazed up at the windows.One or two faint lights twinkled.Then perhaps the household had not yet retired for the night.An idea seized him.He must rest.He must snatch a brief interval of repose, before starting for the docks at dawn to find a ship in whose hold he could seek seclusion, till the great seas roared round her, and he could declare himself to the captain and crew without fear of being put ashore.Why not rest here in number one thousand? True, the Prophet would presently be returning possibly with Madame, but he would bribe Mr.Ferdinand not to mention his whereabouts.It was no doubt a very rash proceeding, but he was utterly exhausted, he felt that he could go no further, he found himself before an almost friendly door.What wonder then if he tottered up the steps and tapped feebly upon it? There was no answer.He tapped again more loudly.This time his summons was heard.Steps approached.

There was a moment's pause.Then the door opened, and Gustavus appeared looking rather sleepy, but still decidedly intellectual.Malkiel the Second pulled himself together and faced the footman boldly.

"You know me?" he said.

Gustavus examined him closely.

"Yes, sir," he replied at length."By the clothes.I should know Mr.

Ferdinand's trouserings among a thousand."Malkiel the Second realised that emotion probably rendered his face unrecognisable.But at least his legs spoke for him.That was something, and he continued, with an attempt at ease and boldness,--"Right! I have returned to change them."

"Yes, sir.Mr.Ferdinand has retired to bed, sir.""Don't wake him.I can just leave them for him.""Very well, sir."

And Gustavus admitted Malkiel to the dimly-lit hall and shut the door softly.

"What is your name, young man?" said Malkiel, whispering.

"Gustavus, sir."

"Ah! Gustavus, would you like to earn a hundred pounds to-night?"Gustavus started.

"I don't say as how I'd rather not, sir," he replied."I don't go so far as to say that.""Right! Do as I tell you and you will earn a hundred pounds."The footman's eyes began to glow, almost like a cat's in the twilight.

"Why, I could buy the library near twelve times over," he murmured.

"The library?" said Malkiel, whose brain had suddenly become strangely clear.

"Ah, sir--Dr.Carter's," returned Gustavus, beginning to tremble.