“Yes, sir.”
“And—fix a bulletin on the door. Wait! I’ll write it.”
The Prophet hastened to his writing table and, with a hand that trembled violently, wrote on a card as follows:—
“Owner of this house seriously ill, pray do not knock or death shall certainly ensue.”
“There! Poor grannie will have peace now. Nail that up, Mr. Ferdinand, under the cotton-wool.”
“Very well, sir. Mrs. Merillia, sir, would be glad to speak to you for a moment. You remember I informed you?”
“I’ll go to her at once. But first bring me a glass of brandy, Mr. Ferdinand. I’m feeling extremely unwell.”
And the Prophet, who was paler far than ashes, and beaded from top to toe with perspiration, sank down feebly upon a chair and let his head drop on the blotting-pad that lay on his writing-table.
When he had swallowed an inch or two of cognac he got up, pulled himself together with both hands, and walked, like an elderly person afflicted with incipient locomotor ataxy, upstairs into the drawing-room where Mrs. Merillia was lying on a sofa, ministered to by Fancy Quinglet, who, at the moment of his entrance, was busily engaged in stuffing a large wad of cotton-wool into the right ear of her beloved mistress.
“Leave us please, Fancy,” said Mrs. Merillia, in a voice that sounded much older than usual. “And as your head is so bad, too, you had better lie down.”