Go and asseverate at once, Mr. Ferdinand."
"Very well, sir. And Her Grace, the Duchess of Camberwell, who is
passing from one fit to another, sir, from fright at the uproar and
telegrams going to the wrong house, sir?"
"Implore Her Grace to have courage and to trust me as a gentleman when I
promise solemnly that the knocking shall not be renewed."
"Very well, sir."
"Mr. Ferdinand!"
"Sir?"
"Have the knockers swathed in cotton-wool at once."
"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.
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