CHAPTER IX

THE PROPHET BEGINS TO CARRY OUT HIS DIRECTIONS

“Mr. Ferdinand,” said the Prophet the same evening, after he had dressed for dinner, “what has become of the telescope?”

He spoke in a low voice, not unlike that of a confirmed conspirator, and glanced rather furtively around him, as if afraid of being overheard.

“I have removed it, sir, according to your orders,” replied Mr. Ferdinand, also displaying some uneasiness.

“Yes, yes.  Where have you placed it?”

“Well, sir, I understood you to say I might throw it in Piccadilly, if I so wished.”

The Prophet suddenly displayed relief.

“I see.  You have done so.”

“Well, no, sir.”

The Prophet’s face fell.

“Then where is it?”

“Well, sir, for the moment I have set it in the butler’s pantry.”

“Indeed!”

“I thought it might be of use there, sir,” continued Mr. Ferdinand, in some confusion, which, however, was not noticed by the Prophet.  “Of great use to—­to Gustavus and me in—­in our duties, sir.”

“Quite so, quite so,” returned the Prophet, abstractedly.

“Did you wish it to be taken to the drawing-room again, sir?”

The Prophet started.

“Certainly not,” he said.  “On no account.  As you very rightly say—­a butler’s pantry is the place for a telescope.  It can be of great service there.”

His fervour surprised Mr. Ferdinand, who began to wonder whether, by any chance, his master knew of the Lord Chancellor’s agreeable-looking second-cook.  After pausing a moment respectfully, Mr. Ferdinand was about to decamp when the Prophet checked him with a gesture.

“One moment, Mr. Ferdinand!”

“Sir?”

“One moment!”

Mr. Ferdinand stood still.  The Prophet cleared his throat, arranged his tie, and then said, with an air of very elaborate nonchalance,—­

“At what time do you generally go to bed, Mr. Ferdinand, when you don’t sit up?”

“Sometimes at one time, sir, and sometimes at another.”

“That’s rather ambiguous.”

“I beg pardon, sir.”

“What is your usual hour for being quite—­that is, entirely in bed.”

“Entirely in bed, sir?”

Mr. Ferdinand’s fine bass voice vibrated with surprise.

“Yes.  Not partially in bed, but really and truly in bed?”

“Well, sir,” returned Mr. Ferdinand, with decided dignity, “when I am in bed, sir, I am.”

“And when’s that?”

“By twelve, sir.”

“I thought as much,” cried the Prophet, with slightly theatrical solicitude.  “You sit up too late, Mr. Ferdinand.”

“I hope, sir, that I—­”

“That’s what makes you so pale, Mr. Ferdinand, and delicate.”

“Delicate, sir!” cried Mr. Ferdinand, who had in fact been hopelessly robust from the cradle, totally incapable of acquiring even the most universal complaints, and, moreover, miraculously exempt from that well-recognised affliction of the members of his profession so widely known as “butler’s feet.”