I had lost all count of time when the door was softly opened, and Arthur, followed by a stranger, came into the room, which stranger was the exact opposite of what I had expected. I had pictured the Spiritual Healer to myself as a wild, emaciated, long-haired figure--a sort of cross between an ideal poet and John the Baptist: instead of which I beheld a tall, broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed Londoner, with the quiet manners and easy assurance of the typical man about town. I am almost ashamed to own it, only one never should be ashamed to own the truth; but--absurd as it may sound--it was the perfect cut of Mr. Henderson's coat that suddenly made the man and his mission real to me. Had he worn the garb of a monk, I should have relegated him to the sphere of mediæval superstition; had he worn the dress of a priest, I should have placed him in the category of hysterical revivalists; but I felt an irresistible conviction that a man in such a well-cut and fashionable coat as his could only preach a gospel as practical and convincing as the _Times_ of that morning. Blathwayte hurriedly indicated to Mr. Henderson who we all were, and then they both knelt down beside the bed, the rest of us following their example. I cannot give a dramatic account of what followed, simply because there was nothing dramatic about it. At the time it seemed--as it has always seemed to me in recalling it--to be the most natural and simple thing in the world. To make it any way thrilling or dramatic would rob it, to my mind, of its strength, and convincingness. First Mr. Henderson offered up aloud an extempore prayer that Frank's sufferings might be relieved and his life spared. Even the word "prayer" seems almost too stilted and transcendental to convey my meaning: he rather besought a favour of a present Person, with an assurance that that Person's sympathies were so entirely enlisted on his side, that the granting of his petition was a foregone conclusion.