"Now pour, and leave us, Frederick Smith."
The young librarian helped the fatigued-looking wine into the two
glasses, where it lay as if thoroughly exhausted by the effort of
getting there, and then languidly left the parlour, turning his bulging
head over his shoulder to indulge in a pathetic _oeillade_ ere he
vanished.
The Prophet watched him go.
"Close the door, Frederick Smith," cried Malkiel, in a meaning manner.
The Prophet blushed a guilty red, and the young librarian obeyed with a
bang.
"And now, sir, I must request you to take a solemn pledge in this
vintage," said Malkiel, placing one of the tumblers in the Prophet's
trembling hand.
"Really," said the Prophet, "I am not at all thirsty."
"Why should you be, sir? What has that got to do with it?" retorted
Malkiel. "Lift your glass, sir."
The Prophet obeyed.
"And now take this pledge--that, till the last day--"
"What day?"
"The last day, sir, you will reveal to no living person that there is
such an individual as Malkiel, that you have ever met him, who he is, or
who Madame and family are, unless I give the word. You have surprised my
secret. You have forced yourself upon me.
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