ostentatiously towards the two speakers.

"I can tell you in an inner room," he murmured, in his most ingratiating
manner.

"You're certain it's not Berkeley Square behind Kimmins's?" said
Malkiel, with a last flicker of suspicion.

"Quite certain--quite."

"Frederick Smith," said Malkiel the Second, "since Jellybrand's
has betrayed me Jellybrand's must abide the consequences. Show this
gentleman and me to the parlour."

"Right, Mr. Sagittarius," replied the young librarian whose memory had
again become excellent. "But Miss Minerva is coming at three-thirty."

"Has she bespoke the parlour, Frederick Smith?"

"Yes, Mr. Sagittarius."

"Then she can't have it. That's all. Jellybrand's must abide the full
consequences of my betrayal. Go forward, Frederick Smith."

The young librarian went forward towards a door of deal and ground glass
which he threw open with some ceremony.

"The parlour, gents," he said.

"After you, sir, after you," said Malkiel the Second, making a side step
and bringing his feet together in the first position.

"No, no," rejoined the Prophet, gently drawing the sage to the front,
and inserting him into the parlour in such an ingenious manner that he
did not perceive the journey of a second half sovereign from the person
of the Prophet to that of the young librarian, who thereafter closed the
deal and ground glass door, and returned to the counter, whistling in an
absent-minded manner, "I'm a Happy Millionaire from Colorado."

CHAPTER III

THE TWO PROPHETS PARTAKE OF "CREAMING FOAM."

"And now, sir," said Malkiel the Second, pointing to a couple of cane
chairs which, with the table, endeavoured, rather unsuccessfully, to
furnish forth the parlour at Jellybrand's, "now sir, what do you want
with me?"

As he spoke he threw his black overcoat wide open, seated himself on
the edge of one of the chairs in a dignified attitude, and crossed his
feet--which were not innocent of spats--one over the other.

The Prophet was resolved to dare all, and he, therefore, answered
boldly,--

"Malkiel the Second, I wish to speak to you as one prophet to another."

At this remark Malkiel started violently, and darted a searching glance
from beneath his blonde eyebrows at Hennessey.

"Do you live in the Berkeley Square, sir," he said, "and claim to be a
prophet?"

"I do," said Hennessey, with modest determination.

Malkiel smiled, a long and wreathed smile that was full of luscious
melancholy