The dogskin glove was raised. The Prophet hastened to reply,—
“I daresay they would.”
“But she was not afraid, and she shall have her reward. Corona shall never set foot in Drakeman’s Villas, nor breathe the air of Hagglin’s. I must have a glass of water, I must, sir, indeed.”
He gasped heavily and was about to rise, when the Prophet said:
“Join me in a glass of wine.”
“I should be delighted,” Malkiel answered. “Delighted, I’m sure, but I doubt whether Jellybrand’s—”
“Could not Frederick Smith go out and fetch us a—a pint bottle of champagne?” said the Prophet, playing a desperate card in the prophetic game.
An expression almost of joviality overspread the tragic farce of Malkiel’s appearance.
“We’ll see,” he answered, opening the deal door. “Frederick Smith!”
“Here, Mr. Sagittarius,” cried the soprano voice of the young librarian.