The Prophet looked up, and perceived that Malkiel’s overcoat was tightly buttoned and that his mouth was tightly set in an expression of indomitable, though tragic, resolution.
“What business?” asked the Prophet.
“Mine,” replied Malkiel. “Mine, sir, and yours. You have chosen to enter my life. You cannot deny that. You cannot deny that I sought to avoid—I might even say to dodge you.”
With the remembrance of the recent circus performance in the library still strong upon him the Prophet could not. He bowed his head.
“Very well, sir. You have chosen to enter my life. That act has given me the right to enter yours. Am I correct?”
“I suppose—I mean—yes, you are,” answered the Prophet, overwhelmed by the pitiless logic of his companion, and wondering what was coming next.
“I have been forced—I think I may say that—to reveal myself to you, sir. Nothing can ever alter that. Nothing can ever take from you the knowledge—denied by Madame to the very architects—of who I really am. You have told me, sir, that I must see this thing through. I tell you now, at this table, in this parlour, that I intend to see it through—and through.”
As Malkiel said the last words he gazed at the Prophet with eyes that seemed suddenly to have taken on the peculiar properties of the gimlet. The Prophet began to feel extremely uneasy. But he said nothing. He felt that there was more to come. And he was right.
“It is my duty,” continued Malkiel, in a louder voice, “my sacred duty to Madame—to say nothing of Corona and Capricornus—to probe you to the core”—here the Prophet could not resist a startled movement of protest—“and to search you to the quick.”
“Oh, really!” cried the Prophet.