"I most certainly do," replied Ralph.
Again the sardonic smile filled all Apleon's face as he returned:
"Then if all that you say and write be true, as regards the coming Anti-christ, and you continue to wear the late editor's mantle when you write 'The Prophet's chair' articles, how long do you suppose that that powerful super-man, the Anti-christ of your belief, will let you alone. If he is to be so powerful, and if the devil is to energize him, as you say;—even as you profess to believe that he has called into being—is now actually dwelling on the earth, though invisible, and all his angels (demons, I believe they are called in the Bible) are moving about invisibly among the people on the earth, among the people of this wonderful London, if all this, I say, be so, how long do you suppose you will be allowed, by his Satanic Majesty, to ply your trade of warner of the peoples? Why, man, your life is not worth the snap of a finger?"
Ralph smiled. The smile transfigured his face, even as the same sort of smile transfigured the faces of the martyrs of old time, beginning with Stephen.
"I care not how long I live," he replied. "The only care I have now is to be true to my convictions, true to my God."
The telephone rang at that instant. "Excuse me one moment, Mr. Apleon," he said, turning to the instrument.
There followed a few moments exchanges on the 'phone, then replacing the receiver he turned. But his visitor was gone.
"That's curious!" he muttered. "I did not hear a sound of his going, any more than I did of his coming. Uncanny, eerie, creepy, almost!"
There was a tap at the door. "Come in!" he called. The messenger boy, Charley, entered with a sheaf of proof galleys.
"Did you see that tall gentleman pass out, Charley?" he asked. "Did he go down stairs, or into one of the other offices?"