“Where is the old astronomer to search?” he asked, in a low voice.  “Oh-h-h-h!”

The final exclamation sounded remarkably tremulous.

“Anywhere—­except in my grandmother’s bedroom.  That of course is sacred.  Well, why don’t you begin?”

Sir Tiglath eyed the Prophet furtively.

“I’m—­I’m going to,” he murmured hoarsely.  “The old astronomer does not know the meaning of the word—­fear.”

Exactly as he uttered these inspiring words the hall clock growled, like a very large dog, and struck two.  Sir Tiglath started and caught hold of Gustavus, who started in his turn and shrank away.  The Prophet alone stood up to the clock, which finished its remark with a click, and resumed its habitual occupation of ticking.

“Pray begin, Sir Tiglath,” said the Prophet.

“The old astronomer—­must have a—­a—­a—­candle.”

“Here is one,” said the Prophet, handing the desired article.

“A lighted candle.”

“Why lighted?  Oh, so that you can see to murder him!  Gustavus, light the candle.”

Gustavus, who was trembling a good deal more than an autumn leaf, complied after about fifteen unavailing attempts.

“There, Sir Tiglath,” said the Prophet.  “Now you can begin.”  And he seated himself upon a settee, leaned back and crossed his legs.

“You will not accompany the old astronomer?  Oh-h-h”

“No.  I will rest here.  When you have found the ruffian and murdered him, I shall be glad to hear your news.”

And, so saying, the Prophet settled himself comfortably with a cushion behind his back, and calmly closed his eyes.  The candlestick clattered in Sir Tiglath’s gouty hand.  The Prophet heard it, heard heavy feet shuffling very slowly and cautiously over the floor of the hall, finally heard the door leading to the servants’ quarters swing on its hinges.  Still he did not open his eyes.  He felt that if he were to do so just then he would probably begin to shriek, rave, foam at the mouth, and in all known ways comport himself as do the inhabitants of Bedlam.  A delicate silence fell in the hall.  How long it lasted the Prophet never knew.  It might have been five minutes or five years as far as he was concerned.  It was broken at length by the following symphony of sounds—­an elderly man’s voice roaring, a woman’s voice uttering a considerable number of very powerful screams on a rather low but still resounding note, a loud thump, a crash of glass, a prodigious clattering, as of utensils made in some noisy material falling from a height and rolling vigorously in innumerable directions, two or three bangs of doors, and the peculiar patter of rather large and flat feet, unaccustomed to any rapid exercise, moving over boards, oilcloth and carpet.  Then the swing door sang, and the Prophet, opening his eyes, perceived Madame Malkiel moving forward with considerable vivacity, and screaming as she moved, her bonnet depending down