“I trusted to Jellybrand’s,” he said, drawing from his tail pocket a white handkerchief covered with a pattern of pink storks in flight. “I trusted to Jellybrand’s and Jellybrand’s has betrayed me. Oh, Frederick Smith!”
He put a stork to each eye. The young librarian assumed an injured air.
“It was the agitation did it, Mr. Sagittarius,” he said. “If you hadn’t a-kep’ dodging I shouldn’t have lost my memory.”
And he looked avariciously at the Prophet, who smiled at him reassuringly and drew forth a card case.
“I feel sure, Mr. Sag—Malkiel—”
“Malkiel the Second, sir, is my name if it is betrayed by Jellybrand’s,” said that gentleman with sudden dignity. “There is no need of any mister.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Prophet, handing his card. “That is my name and address. May I beg you to forgive my apparent anxiety to make your acquaintance, and implore you to grant me a few moments of private conversation on a matter of the utmost importance?”
Malkiel the Second read the card.
“Berkeley Square,” he said. “The Berkeley Square?”
“Exactly, the Berkeley Square,” said the Prophet, modestly.