“Telegram, sir,” he said in a thin voice.

“Give it to me, my lad,” replied the Prophet.

The small boy handed the telegram and turned to depart.

“Wait a moment, my lad,” said the Prophet, very gently.

The small boy waited.

“Do you wish to be strangled, my lad?” asked the Prophet.

The small boy tried to recoil, but his terror rooted him firmly to the spot.

“Do all the other boys at the office wish to be strangled?” continued the Prophet.  “Come, my lad, why don’t you answer me?”

“No, sir,” whispered the small boy, passing his little tongue over his pale lips.

“Very well, my lad, the next boy who brings a telegram to this house will be strangled, do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir,” sighed the small boy, like a terror-stricken Zephyr.

“That’s right.  Good-night, my lad.”

The Prophet closed the street door very softly, and the small boy dropped fainting on the pavement and was carried to the nearest hospital on a stretcher by two dutiful policemen.

Meanwhile the Prophet opened the telegram and read as follows:—­

“Insufferable insolence.  How dare you; shall pay dearly; with you to-morrow first ’bus.

“JUPITER AND MADAME SAGITTARIUS.”

“Mr. Ferdinand!” called the Prophet.

“Yes, sir.”

“I am about to write a telegram.  Gustavus will take it to the office.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Prophet went into the library and wrote these words on a telegraph form:—­

“Jupiter Sagittarius, Sagittarius Lodge, Crampton St. Peter, N. Your life is in danger; keep where you are; another telegram may destroy you.  Grave news.

“VIVIAN.”

The Prophet gave this telegram to Gustavus and then prepared to go upstairs to his grandmother.  As he mounted towards the drawing-room he murmured to himself over and over again,—­

“Sir Tiglath—­Malkiel!  Malkiel—­Sir Tiglath!”

He found Mrs. Merillia very prostrate.  It seemed that the telegraph boys had very soon worn through the cotton-wool with which the knocker had been shrouded, and that the incessant noise of their efforts to attract attention at the door had quite unnerved the gallant old lady.  Nevertheless, her own condition was the last thing she thought of.

“I don’t mind for myself, Hennessey,” she said.  “But it is very sad after all these years of respect and even, I think, a certain popularity, to be considered a nuisance by one’s square.  We are hopelessly embroiled with the Duchess of Camberwell, and the Lord Chancellor has sent over five times to explain the different laws and regulations that we are breaking.  I don’t see how you can go to his Reception to-night, really.”

“I am not going, grannie,” said the Prophet, overwhelmed with contrition.  “I cannot go in any case.”

“Why not?”

“I—­I have some work to do at home.”