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Zanti!... The little green room began to extend its narrow walls and to include in its boundaries flashing rivers, shining cities, wide and bounteous plains.
She walked with that hesitating halting step that he knew so well: her small, white hand lay, for a moment on the banisters then she had disappeared. Coming through the hall Peter noticed that there was a letter in the box. He took it out and found, with delight, that it was from Stephen Brant. He had had no word from him since the day when he and Mr. Zanti had paid their fateful visit.
Zanti could be heard disputing with the cabman. "You can go and be damned ze bags were not on ze outside Zat is plenty for your pay and you be damned " The shop door closed with a bang shutting out the fog and Mr. Zanti filled the little bookshop. He seemed taller and larger than he had been in Cornwall and his voice was sharper.
Zanti, still very slowly, as though he were thinking. "Any one been?" he said at last to Herr Gottfried. "Oblotzky." Mr. Zanti, after flinging a strange, half-affectionate, half-inquisitive look at Peter, went through into the room beyond. "What ..." said Peter. "Often enough," interrupted Herr Gottfried, shuffling back to his seat, "young boys want to know too much ... often enough."
Across the absolute silence of the room there came the sound of the rain driving upon the pane, of the tumbling chatter of the fire, of the baby's hands falling upon the carpet. Mr. Zanti was suddenly upon his knees. "Here," he cried, seizing the blue ball. He rolled it to young Stephen. It was caught, dropped and then the fat fingers had flung themselves upon Mr. Zanti's coat.
Where else?" the other answered and the two men watched each other with hostility across the floor. "I wish we'd all bloomin' wull kept out of it," Stephen murmured to himself it seemed. Peter's eyes were upon Mr. Zanti. That gentleman looked more like a naughty child than ever. In his eyes there was the piteous appeal of a small boy about to be punished for some grievous fault.
Zanti, waving his hands, almost shouting, Stephen, his eyes resting with delight on Peter, Peter himself another creature from the man who had pursued Mortimer Stant in the room upstairs, half an hour before. "We thought that ze time 'ad come, dear boy... we know zat you are busy." Mr. Zanti looked about him a little anxiously, as though he expected to find Mrs.
Zanti and went to bed. But his dreams were confused that night. It seemed to him that London was a huge room with closing walls, and that ever they came closer and closer and that he screamed for Stephen and they would not let Stephen come to him. And bells were ringing, and Mr.
Again, they were not Mystics because Mysticism needed a definite removal from this world before any other world were possible. No, they were simply Explorers and one traced a member of the order on the instant. There had been already in Peter's life, Frosted Moses, Stephen, Mr. Zanti, Noah Monogue, and now suddenly there was Maradick.
I did not know what they were at. They Zanti there 'ad 'elped me when I was in trouble years ago. They've given me jobs before now, but they've always been bunglers and now, thank the Lord, they've bungled again. You come with me, Mr. Peter come along from it all. We'll manage something. I've only been waiting until you wanted me."
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