“Those hallowed precincts! Well, perhaps you have the right. Jellybrand’s has betrayed me to you. You know my name, my profession. Why should you not know more? Perhaps it is better so.”
With the sudden energy of a man who is reckless of fate he seized his goblet, poured into it at least a shilling’s worth of “creaming foam,” drained it to the dregs and, shaking back his matted hair with a leonine movement of the head, exclaimed,—
“Malkiel the First, who founded the Almanac, lay perdew all his life.”
“Beside the secret waters of the River Mouse?” the Prophet could not help interposing.
“No, sir. He would never have gone so far as that. But he lived and died in Susan Road beside the gas-works. He was a great man.”
“I’m sure he was,” said the Prophet, heartily.
“He wished me to live and die there too,” said Malkiel. “But there are limits, sir, even to the forbearance of women. Madame was affected, painfully affected, by the gas, sir. It stank in her nostrils—to use a figure. And then there was another drawback that she could not get over.”
“Indeed!”
“The sweeps, sir.”
“I beg your pardon!” said the Prophet.