"Can Madame be wrong?"
The Prophet gazed at him with profound curiosity, fascinated by the
circular movement of the yellow dogskin finger, and by the inward
murmur--so acutely mental--that accompanied it.
"Madame?" whispered the Prophet, drawing his cane chair noiselessly
forward.
"Ah!" rejoined Malkiel, gazing upon him with an eye whose pupil seemed
suddenly dilated to a most preternatural size. "Can she have been wrong
all these many years?"
"What--what about?" murmured the Prophet.
Malkiel the Second leaned his matted head in his hands and replied, as
if to himself,--
"Can it be that a prophet should live in Berkeley Square--not
Kimmins's"--here he raised his head, and raked his companion with a
glance that was almost fierce in its fervour of inquiry--"not Kimmins's
but--the Berkeley Square?"
CHAPTER IV
THE SECRET WATERS OF THE RIVER MOUSE
To this question the Prophet could offer no answer other than a bodily
one. He silently presented himself to the gaze of Malkiel, instinctively
squaring his shoulders, opening out his chest, and expanding his
nostrils in an effort to fill as large a space in the atmosphere of
the parlour as possible.
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