On hearing this remark, the Prophet desisted from his assault upon the door, overcome by the absolute conviction that his beloved grandmother was suffering from a pronounced form of homicidal mania.  His affection prompted him to keep such a catastrophe secret as long as possible, and he therefore turned to Mrs. Fancy and Gustavus, and said hurriedly,—­

“This is a matter for me alone.  Mrs. Fancy, please go away at once.  Gustavus, you will accompany Mrs. Fancy.”

His manner was so firm, his face so iron in its determination, that Mrs. Fancy and Gustavus dared not proffer a word.  They turned away and disappeared softly down the stairs, to wait the denouement of this tragedy in the hall below.  Meantime the poker was growing red hot in the coals, and Mrs. Merillia announced to the supposed ratcatcher,—­

“I can hear you—­I hear you breathing—­” (the Prophet endeavoured not to breathe).  “I hear you rustling, but you can’t touch me.  The poker is red hot.”

And she drew it smoking from the grate and approached the door, holding it in her delicate hand like a weapon.

“Grannie!” said the Prophet, making his voice as much like it generally was as he possibly could.  “Dearest grannie!”

“I dare you to come in!” replied Mrs. Merillia, in an almost formidable manner.  “I dare you to do it.”

“I am not coming in, grannie,” said the Prophet.

“Then go away!” said Mrs. Merillia.  “Go away—­and let me hear you going.”

A sudden idea struck the Prophet.  He did not say another word, but immediately walked downstairs, tramping heavily and shaking the wood balusters violently at every step he took.  His ruse succeeded.  Hearing the intruder depart, Mrs. Merillia’s curious courage deserted her, she dropped the poker into the grate, and once more set both bells going with all her might and main.  The Prophet let her ring for nearly five minutes, then he bounded once more upstairs and tapped very gently on the door.

“Grannie,” he cried, “are you ringing?  What is it?”

This time Mrs. Merillia recognised his voice, tottered to the door, unlocked it, and fell, trembling, into his anxious arms.

“Oh, Hennessey!” she gasped.  “Oh—­Hennessey!”

“Grannie, what is it?  What on earth is the matter?”

“The ratcatcher!  The ratcatcher!”

“The ratcatcher!” cried the Prophet.

“He has come back.  He is here.  He has been trying to break into my room.”

“What ratcatcher?”

“The one that dined to-night—­the one you called your old and—­and valued—­friend.”

“Mr. Sagittarius?” exclaimed the Prophet.

“He is here.”

“Here!”

“I have seen him.  He has tried to murder me.”

“I will look into this at once,” said the Prophet.

He ran to the head of the stairs and called out,—­

“Gustavus!”

“Sir!”