Part 4 (1/2)
”Where is eleven hundred Z, if you please?” he asked the Shaftesbury Avenue policeman.
”Jellybrand's sir? On the right between the cream shop and the engine warehouse, just opposite the place where they sell parrots, after that there patent medicine depot.”
The Prophet bowed, thinking of the blessings of knowledge. In a moment he stood before the library and glanced at its dirty window. He saw several letters lying against the gla.s.s. One was addressed to ”Miss Minerva Partridge.” He stepped in, wondering what she was like.
Jellybrand's Library was a small, square room containing a letter rack, a newspaper stand, a bookcase and a counter. It was fitted up with letters, papers, books, and a big boy with a bulging head. The last-named stood behind the counter, stroking his irregular profile with one hand, and throwing a box of J nibs into the air and catching it with the other. Upon the Prophet's entrance this youth obligingly dropped the nibs accidentally upon the floor, and arranged his sharp and anemic face in an expression of consumptive inquiry. The Prophet approached the counter softly, and allowed the sable with which his coat was trimmed to rest against it.
”Did a boy messenger call here a few days ago with a note for Mr.
Malkiel?” he asked.
The young librarian a.s.sumed an att.i.tude of vital suspicion and the expression of a lynx.
”For Malkiel the Second, sir?” he replied in a piercing soprano voice.
”Yes,” said the Prophet. ”A boy messenger with four medals. There was a crest on the envelope--an elephant rampant surrounded by a swarm of bees.”
A dogged look of combined terror and resolution overspread the young librarian's countenance.
”There's been no elephant and no swarm of bees in here,” he said with trembling curtness.
”You are sure you would have remembered the circ.u.mstance if there had been?”
”Rather! What do you think? We don't allow things of them sort in here, I can tell you.”
The Prophet drew out half a sovereign, upon which a ray of suns.h.i.+ne immediately fell as if in benediction.
”Does Mr. Malkiel--?
”Malkiel the Second,” interrupted the young librarian, whose pinkish eyes winked at the illumination of the gold.
”Malkiel the Second ever call here--in person?”
”In person?” said the young librarian, very suspiciously.
”Exactly.”
”I don't know about in person. He calls here.”
”Ah,” said the Prophet, recognising in the youth a literary sense that instinctively rejected superfluity. ”He does call. May I ask when?”
”When he chooses,” said the young librarian, and he winked again.
”Does he choose often?”
”He's got his day, like Miss Partridge and lots of 'em.”
”I see. Is his day--by chance--a Thursday?”
It was a Thursday afternoon.