He held the tumbler to his lips, waiting for the Prophet’s reply to give the signal for a unanimous swallowing of the priceless wine.
“Luck,” echoed the Prophet in a faltering voice.
As he gradually recovered his faculties, he heard Malkiel the Second say, with an almost debauched accent,—
“That puts heart into a man. I shall give Gillows an order. Leave us, Frederick Smith, and remember that Miss Minerva is on no account to be let in here till this gentleman and I have finished the second bottle.”
The Prophet could not resist a wild movement of protest, which was apparently taken by the young librarian as a passionate gesture of dismissal. For he left the room rapidly and closed the door with decision behind him.
“And now, sir, I am at your service,” said Malkiel the Second, courteously. “Let me pour you another glass of wine.”
The Prophet assented mechanically. It seemed strange to have to die so young, and with so many plans unfulfilled, but he felt that it was useless to struggle against destiny and he drank again. Then he heard a voice say,—
“And now, sir, I am all attention.”
He looked up. He saw the parlour, the ground glass of the door, the tumblers and bottles on the table, the sharp features and strained, farcical eyes of Malkiel framed in the matted, curling hair. Then all was not over yet. There was something still in store for him. He sat up, pushed the creaming four-shilling foam out of his sight, turned to his interlocutor, and with a great effort collected himself.
“I want to consult you,” he began, “about my strange powers.”