The Prophet of Berkeley Square Part 12

"This ain't a shop, sir," replied the high soprano of the young librarian, indignantly.

"Bandy no words with me, thou infamous malapert!" returned the first voice. "But answer my question. Have you a young female concealed within these loathsome precincts?"

Under ordinary circ.u.mstances it is very possible that the young librarian might have betrayed the lady as he had already betrayed Malkiel the Second. But it happened that there existed upon the earth one object, and one object only, towards which he felt a sense of chivalry. This object was Jellybrand's Library. His reply to the voice was therefore as follows, and was delivered in his highest key and with extreme volubility and pa.s.sion:--

"Loathsome precincts yourself! You're a nice one, you are, chasing respectable ladies about at your age. There ain't no young females in the library, and if there was I shouldn't trot 'em out for you to clap your ugly old eyes on. Now then, out yer go. No more words about it. Out yer go!"

A prolonged sound of hard breathing and of feet sc.r.a.ping violently upon bare boards followed upon this deliverance, complicated by the sharp snap of a breaking walking stick, the thump of a falling chair, a bang as of a heavy body encountering firm resistance from some inflexible article of furniture--probably a bookcase--and finally a tremendous thundering, as of the hoofs of a squadron of cavalry charging over a parquet floor, the crash of a door, the grinding of a key swiftly turning in a lock, and--silence.

The lady, Malkiel the Second and the Prophet looked at one another, and the lady opened her mouth.

"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, surpa.s.sed that very American effort of nature, wavered, faltered to Lodore, died away to a feeble t.i.ttup 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s of water!" she cried. "Get me a gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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,--

"One moment, sir!"

"Not one," retorted the Prophet, firmly. "Not one till this lady has had an antidote."

He walked on with determination. Supporting the lady. But ere he got quite out of earshot he caught these fragments of a shattered speech, hurtling through the symphony of London noises:--

"Banks of the Mouse--Madame--sake of Capricor--be sure I--probe--quick--search--the very core--hear from me--architects--marrow--almanac--the last day--the Berkeley square--"

The final e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n melted away into the somewhat powerful discord produced by the impact of a brewer's dray with a runaway omnibus at the corner of Greek Street, which was eventually resolved by the bursting of a motor car--containing two bookmakers and an acting manager--which mingled with them at the rate of perhaps forty miles an hour.

"Yes, please, a hansom," said Lady Enid Thistle, some five minutes later, as she and the Prophet stood together upon the kerb in front of the rabbit shop. "I feel much better now."

The Prophet hailed a hansom and handed her into it.

"Which way are you going?" he asked.

Lady Enid looked doubtful.

"I ought to be going back to Jellybrand's," she said. "I had an appointment. But really--you see Mr. Sagittarius is there, and altogether--I don't know."

She was obviously still upset by the "creaming foam," and the other incidents of the afternoon.

"Come to tea with grannie," said the Prophet.

"She's at home?"

"Yes. She's twisted her ankle."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

"Let me escort you."