"Exactly."
"I don't know about in person. He calls here."
"Ah," said the Prophet, recognising in the youth a literary sense that
instinctively rejected superfluity. "He does call. May I ask when?"
"When he chooses," said the young librarian, and he winked again.
"Does he choose often?"
"He's got his day, like Miss Partridge and lots of 'em."
"I see. Is his day--by chance--a Thursday?"
It was a Thursday afternoon.
"I don't know about by chance," rejoined the young librarian, his
literary sense again coming into play. "But it's--"
At this moment the library door opened, and a tall, thin, middle-aged
man walked in sideways with his feet very much turned out to right and
left of him.
"Any letters, Frederick Smith?" he said in a hollow voice, on reaching
the counter.
"Two, Mr. Sagittarius, I believe," replied the young librarian, moving
with respectful celerity towards the letter rack.
The Prophet started and looked eagerly at the newcomer. His eyes rested
upon an individual whose face was comic in outline with a serious
expression, and whose form suggested tragic farce dressed to represent
commonplace, as seen at Margate and elsewhere.
Pages:
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48