“Malkiel the Second ever call here—in person?”
“In person?” said the young librarian, very suspiciously.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know about in person. He calls here.”
“Ah,” said the Prophet, recognising in the youth a literary sense that instinctively rejected superfluity. “He does call. May I ask when?”
“When he chooses,” said the young librarian, and he winked again.
“Does he choose often?”
“He’s got his day, like Miss Partridge and lots of ‘em.”
“I see. Is his day—by chance—a Thursday?”
It was a Thursday afternoon.