“Mr. Malkiel! Who is he? Do we know him?”
“No. But we know his marvellous Almanac.”
“The Almanac person! Why, Malkiel is surely a myth, Hennessey, a number of people, a company, a syndicate, or something of that kind.”
“So I thought, grannie. But I have made inquiries—through a detective agency—and I have discovered that he is one person; in fact, a man, just like you and me.”
“Rather an odd man then! Is he in the Red Book?”
“No. He is, I understand, of a very retiring and secretive disposition. In fact, I have had great difficulty in learning anything about him. But at length I have discovered that he receives and answers letters at an address in London.”
“Indeed. Where is it?”
“Jellybrand’s Library, Eleven Hundred Z, Shaftesbury Avenue. I sent a boy messenger there to-day.”
“Did you receive a reply?”
“No. I think the boy—although Mr. Ferdinand tells me he wore four medals, I presume for courage—must have become nervous on perceiving Mr. Malkiel’s name on the envelope, have thrown the note down a grating, and bolted before he reached the place, though he said—on his Bible oath, I understand from Mr. Ferdinand—he delivered the note. In any case I got no answer. How are you feeling?”