“Explain yourself, Malkiel the Second.  You owe it to me to explain yourself.  Why should my strange gift—­”

“If you have it, sir,” interrupted Malkiel, quickly.

“If I have it, very well—­affect you?  Why should it render the self-sacrifice and—­and the position of—­of Sagittarius Lodge on the river—­the river—­what river did you say—?”

“The River Mouse,” rejoined Malkiel in a muffled voice, and shaking his head sadly.

“Exactly—­on the River Mouse at Crompton—­”

“Crampton.”

“Crampton St. Peter total—­”

“N.!”

“What?”

“Crampton St. Peter.  N. That is the point.”

“Very well—­Crampton St. Peteren, totally and entirely unnecessary?”

“You desire my revelation, sir?  You desire to enter into the bosom of a family that hitherto has dwelt apart, has lain as I may say perdew beside the secret waters of the River Mouse?  Is it indeed so?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” cried the Prophet, hastily.  “I would not for the world intrude upon—­”

“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.

“I said—­the sweeps.”

“I heard you—­well?”

“Being the only people that were not, in the whole road, made for loneliness, sir.”

The Prophet was entirely bouleverse.

“I’m afraid I’m very stupid, but really I—­” he began.

“Is it possible that you live in London, sir, and are not aware that Susan Road lies in the most sought-after portion of the sweeps’ quarter?” said Malkiel, with pitying amazement.

The Prophet blushed with shame.

“I beg your pardon.  Of course—­I understand.  Pray go on.”

“It made for loneliness, sir.”