“There was four shillings apiece to pay, sir,” he remarked to the Prophet as he placed them upon the table.  “I got the ‘our own make’ brand with the ‘creaming foam’ upon the corks.”

The Prophet bent his head.  He was quite unable to speak, but he signed to the young librarian to open one of the bottles and pour its contents into the two tumblers of thick and rather dusty glass that Jellybrand’s kept for its moments of conviviality.  Malkiel the Second lifted the goblet to the window and eyed the beaded nectar with an air of almost rakish anticipation.

“Ready, sir?” he said, turning to the Prophet, who, with a trembling hand, followed his example.

“Quite—­ready,” said the Prophet, shutting his eyes.

“Then,” rejoined Malkiel the Second in a formal voice, “here’s luck!”

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.”

Malkiel smiled with easy irony.

“Strange powers in Berkeley Square!” he ejaculated.  “The Berkeley Square!  But go on, sir.  What are they?”

“Having been led to study the stars,” continued the Prophet with more composure and growing earnestness, “I felt myself moved to make a prophecy.”

“Weather forecast, I suppose,” remarked Malkiel, laconically.

“How did you know that?”

“The easiest kind, sir, the number one beginner’s prophecy.  Capricornus used to tell Madame what the weather’d be as soon as he could talk.  But go on, sir, go on, I beg.”