In that dank cavern down below Belgrave Square the walls were
dripping. But what was that to the magician? It was secrecy that he
needed, not dryness. There he pondered upon the trend of events,
shaped destinies and concocted magical brews.

For the last few years the serenity of his ponderings had been
disturbed by the noise of the motor-bus; while to his keen ears there
came the earthquake-rumble, far off, of the train in the tube, going
down Sloane Street; and when he heard of the world above his head was
not to its credit.

He decided one evening over his evil pipe, down there in his dank
chamber, that London had lived long enough, had abused its
opportunities, had gone too far, in fine, with its civilisation. And
so he decided to wreck it.

Therefore he beckoned up his acolyte from the weedy end of the cavern,
and, "Bring me," he said, "the heart of the toad that dwelleth in
Arabia and by the mountains of Bethany." The acolyte slipped away by
the hidden door, leaving that grim old man with his frightful pipe,
and whither he went who knows but the gipsy people, or by what path he
returned; but within a year he stood in the cavern again, slipping
secretly in by the trap while the old man smoked, and he brought with
him a little fleshy thing that rotted in a casket of pure gold.

"What is it?" the old man croaked.

"It is," said the acolyte, "the heart of the toad that dwelt once in
Arabia and by the mountains of Bethany."