“D’you think he’s killed him?” she whispered with considerable curiosity.

There came a distant noise of a torrent of knocks upon a door.

“No, he hasn’t,” added the lady, arranging her dress.  “That’s a good thing.”

The two prophets nodded.  The torrent of knocks roared louder, slightly failed upon the ear, made a crescendo, emulated Niagara, surpassed that very American effort of nature, wavered, faltered to Lodore, died away to a feeble tittup like water dropping from a tap to flagstones, rose again in a final spurt that would have made Southey open his dictionary for adjectives, and drained away to death.

The lady leaned back.  For the first time her composure seemed about to desert her entirely.  That fatal sign in woman, a working throat, swallowing nothing with extreme rapidity and persistence, became apparent.

“A glass of wine, Miss Minerva?” cried Malkiel, gallantly.

He placed a tumbler to her lips.  She feebly sipped, than sprang to her feet with a cry.

“I’m poisoned!”

“You never spoke a truer word,” said the Prophet, solemnly.

“What is it?” continued the lady, frantically.  “What has he given me?”

“Champagne at four shillings a bottle brought fresh from next door to a rabbit shop,” answered the Prophet, looking at Malkiel with almost malignant satisfaction.

The lady, who had gone white as chalk, darted to the door and flung it open.

“A glass of water!” she cried.  “Get me a glass of water.”

The young librarian came forward with a black eye.

“It’s all right, ma’am.  The gentleman’s gone,” he piped.

“What gentleman?  Give me a glass of water or I shall die!”

The young librarian, who had already an injured air, proceeded from a positive to a comparative condition of appearance.

“Well, I never!  What gentleman!” he exclaimed.  “And me blue and black all over, to say nothing of the bookcase and the new paint that’ll be wanted for the door!”

“Can you chatter about trifles at such a moment?” cried the Prophet.  “Don’t you see the lady’s been poisoned?”

“What—­by the old gent?” returned the young librarian.  “Then what does she come to a library for?  Why don’t she go to a chemist?”

The lady turned her agonised eyes upon the Prophet.

“Take me to one,” she whispered through pale lips.

She tottered towards him and leaned upon his arm.

“Trust me, trust me, I will,” said the Prophet.  “Direct me!” he added to the young librarian.

“There’s one on the other side of the rabbit shop,” said that worthy, who had suddenly become exceedingly glum in manner and morose in appearance.

“Thank you.  Kindly unlock the door.”

The young librarian did so, lethargically, and the lady and the Prophet began to move slowly into the street.  Just as they were gaining it Malkiel the Second cried out,—­