"Right you are!"
"Malkiel the Second!" ejaculated the Prophet. "Then you are the man I
seek."
Malkiel the Second--for it was indeed he--sank back against the counter
in an attitude of abandoned prostration that would have made a fortune
of a comic actor.
"I trusted to Jellybrand's," he said, drawing from his tail pocket a
white handkerchief covered with a pattern of pink storks in flight. "I
trusted to Jellybrand's and Jellybrand's has betrayed me. Oh, Frederick
Smith!"
He put a stork to each eye. The young librarian assumed an injured air.
"It was the agitation did it, Mr. Sagittarius," he said. "If you hadn't
a-kep' dodging I shouldn't have lost my memory."
And he looked avariciously at the Prophet, who smiled at him
reassuringly and drew forth a card case.
"I feel sure, Mr. Sag--Malkiel--"
"Malkiel the Second, sir, is my name if it is betrayed by Jellybrand's,"
said that gentleman with sudden dignity. "There is no need of any
mister."
"I beg your pardon," said the Prophet, handing his card. "That is my
name and address. May I beg you to forgive my apparent anxiety to make
your acquaintance, and implore you to grant me a few moments of private
conversation on a matter of the utmost importance?"
Malkiel the Second read the card.
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