“Ah,” said the Prophet, recognising in the youth a literary sense that instinctively rejected superfluity.  “He does call.  May I ask when?”

“When he chooses,” said the young librarian, and he winked again.

“Does he choose often?”

“He’s got his day, like Miss Partridge and lots of ’em.”

“I see.  Is his day—­by chance—­a Thursday?”

It was a Thursday afternoon.

“I don’t know about by chance,” rejoined the young librarian, his literary sense again coming into play.  “But it’s—­”

At this moment the library door opened, and a tall, thin, middle-aged man walked in sideways with his feet very much turned out to right and left of him.

“Any letters, Frederick Smith?” he said in a hollow voice, on reaching the counter.

“Two, Mr. Sagittarius, I believe,” replied the young librarian, moving with respectful celerity towards the letter rack.

The Prophet started and looked eagerly at the newcomer.  His eyes rested upon an individual whose face was comic in outline with a serious expression, and whose form suggested tragic farce dressed to represent commonplace, as seen at Margate and elsewhere.  A top hat, a spotted collar, a pink shirt, a white satin tie, a chocolate brown frock coat, brown trousers and boots, and a black overcoat thrown open from top to bottom—­these appurtenances, clerkly in their adherence to a certain convention, could not wholly disguise the emotional expression that seems sometimes to lurk in shape.  The lines of Mr. Sagittarius defied their clothing.  His shoulders gave the lie to the chocolate brown frock coat.  His legs breathed defiance to the trousers that sheathed them.  One could, in fancy, see the former shrugged in all the abandonment of third-act despair, behold the latter darting wildly for the cover afforded by a copper, a cupboard, or any other friendly refuge of those poor victims of ludicrous and terrific circumstance who are so sorely smitten and afflicted upon the funny stage.

Mr. Sagittarius, in fine, seemed a man dressed in a mask that was unable to deceive.  His lean face was almost absurd in its irregularity, its high cheek-bones and deep depressions, its sharp nose, extensive mouth and nervous chin.  But the pale blue eyes that were its soul shone plaintively beneath their shaggy, blonde eyebrows, and even an application of pomade almost hysterically lavish could not entirely conceal the curling gloom of the heavy, matted hair.

“Yes, two, Mr. Sagittarius,” cried the young librarian, approaching from the rack.

The gentleman held out a hand covered with a yellow dogskin glove.

“Thank you, Frederick Smith,” he said.

And he turned to leave the building.  But the Prophet intercepted him.

“Excuse me,” said the Prophet.  “I beg your pardon, but—­but—­” he looked at the young librarian and accidentally let the half sovereign fall on the counter.  It gave the true ring.  “I believe I heard you mention—­let drop the name Mr. Sagittarius.”