The Prophet stood quite still with his hat and coat on for several minutes. An amazing self-possession had come to him, the unnatural self-possession of despair. He felt quite calm, as the statue of a dead alderman feels on the embankment of its native city. Nothing seemed to matter at all. He might have been Marcus Aurelius—till a loud double knock came to the front door. Then he might have been any dangerous lunatic, ripe for a strait waistcoat. Mr. Ferdinand approached. The Prophet faced him.
“Kindly retire, Mr. Ferdinand,” he said in a very quiet voice. “I will answer that knock.”
Mr. Ferdinand retired rather rapidly. The knock was repeated. The Prophet opened the door. A telegraph boy, about two and a half feet high, stood outside upon the step.
“Telegram, sir,” he said in a thin voice.
“Give it to me, my lad,” replied the Prophet.
The small boy handed the telegram and turned to depart.
“Wait a moment, my lad,” said the Prophet, very gently.
The small boy waited.
“Do you wish to be strangled, my lad?” asked the Prophet.
The small boy tried to recoil, but his terror rooted him firmly to the spot.