The lady, Malkiel the Second and the Prophet looked at one another, and
the lady opened her mouth.
"D'you think he's killed him?" she whispered with considerable
curiosity.
There came a distant noise of a torrent of knocks upon a door.
"No, he hasn't," added the lady, arranging her dress. "That's a good
thing."
The two prophets nodded. The torrent of knocks roared louder, slightly
failed upon the ear, made a crescendo, emulated Niagara, surpassed that
very American effort of nature, wavered, faltered to Lodore, died away
to a feeble tittup like water dropping from a tap to flagstones, rose
again in a final spurt that would have made Southey open his dictionary
for adjectives, and drained away to death.
The lady leaned back. For the first time her composure seemed about
to desert her entirely. That fatal sign in woman, a working throat,
swallowing nothing with extreme rapidity and persistence, became
apparent.
"A glass of wine, Miss Minerva?" cried Malkiel, gallantly.
He placed a tumbler to her lips. She feebly sipped, than sprang to her
feet with a cry.
"I'm poisoned!"
"You never spoke a truer word," said the Prophet, solemnly.
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