."

"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.

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."

"Thank you, ma'am. If I keep upright, ma'am, I feel my head will split
asunder. I can't speak different nor feel other."

"Then don't be upright."

"No, ma'am. Them that feels other, let them declare it!" and Mrs. Fancy
retired, holding both hands to her temples, and uttering very distinctly
sundry stifled moans.

Mrs. Merillia motioned the Prophet to a chair, and, after lying quite
still for about five minutes with her eyes tightly shut, said in a weak
tone of voice,--

"How many more telegrams do you expect, Hennessey? You have had
twenty-seven within the last three hours. Can you give me a rough
general idea of the average number you anticipate wil