You owe it to me to explain
yourself. Why should my strange gift--"
"If you have it, sir," interrupted Malkiel, quickly.
"If I have it, very well--affect you? Why should it render the
self-sacrifice and--and the position of--of Sagittarius Lodge on the
river--the river--what river did you say--?"
"The River Mouse," rejoined Malkiel in a muffled voice, and shaking his
head sadly.
"Exactly--on the River Mouse at Crompton--"
"Crampton."
"Crampton St. Peter total--"
"N.!"
"What?"
"Crampton St. Peter. N. That is the point."
"Very well--Crampton St. Peteren, totally and entirely unnecessary?"
"You desire my revelation, sir? You desire to enter into the bosom of
a family that hitherto has dwelt apart, has lain as I may say _perdew_
beside the secret waters of the River Mouse? Is it indeed so?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon," cried the Prophet, hastily. "I would not for
the world intrude upon--"
"Those hallowed precincts! Well, perhaps you have the right.
Jellybrand's has betrayed me to you. You know my name, my profession.
Why should you not know more? Perhaps it is better so."
With the sudden energy of a man who is reckless of fate he seized his
goblet, poured into it at least a shilling's worth of "creaming foam,"
drained it to the dregs and, shaking back his matted hair with a leonine
movement of the head, exclaimed,--
"Malkiel the First, who founded the _Almanac_, lay _perdew_ all his
life.
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