Part 12 (1/2)

”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 s.h.i.+llings 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?”