“Certainly,” said the Prophet.  “I will.”

“Wait till the children are grown up.  Wait till Capricornus has got his Latin by heart and gone to Oxford.  Then, and only then, you will know whether Malkiel the Second is the exception to the rule of prophets.  Yes, and Madame shall know it, too.  She trusted me, sir, as only a woman can.  She knew I was a prophet and had a prophet for a father before me.  And yet she trusted me.  It was a daring thing to do.  Many would call it foolhardy.  Wouldn’t they, sir?”

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.

“Can you leave the library for a moment, Frederick Smith?”

The Prophet held up a sovereign over Malkiel the Second’s narrow shoulder.

“Yes, Mr. Sagittarius, for half a mo!”

“Ah!  Where is the nearest champagne, Frederick Smith?”

“The nearest—­”

“Champagne, I said, Frederick Smith.”

“I daresay I could get a dozen at Gillow’s next the rabbit shop,” replied the young librarian, thoughtfully.

The Prophet shuddered to the depths of his being, but he was now embarked upon his enterprise and must crowd all sail.

“Go to Gillow’s,” he exclaimed, with an assumption of feverish geniality, “and bring back a couple of rabbits—­I mean bottles.  They must be dry.  You understand?”

The young librarian looked out of the window.

“Oh, I’ll manage that, sir.  It ain’t raining,” he replied carelessly.

The Prophet stifled a cry of horror as he pressed the sovereign into the young librarian’s hand.

“You can keep the change,” he whispered, adding in a tremulous voice, “Tell me—­tell me frankly—­do you think in your own mind that there will be any?”

“I don’t know about in my own mind,” rejoined the young librarian, drawing a tweed cap from some hidden recess beneath the counter.  “But if you only want two bottles I expect there’ll be ten bob over.”

The Prophet turned as pale as ashes and had some difficulty in sustaining himself to the parlour, where he and Malkiel the Second sat down in silence to await the young librarian’s return.  Frederick Smith came back in about five minutes, with an ostentatious-looking bottle smothered in gold leaf under each arm.