She shook her head vigourously at him, sank down on one of the cane chairs, held up her right hand, and leant towards the door. It was obvious that she was listening for something with strained attention, and so eloquent was her attitude that the two prophets were infected with her desire. They turned their eyes mechanically towards the deal door and listened too. For a moment there was silence. Then a heavy footstep resounded upon the library floor, accompanied by the sharp tap of a walking stick. The lady’s attitude became more tense and the pupils of her handsome grey eyes dilated. “Has a young female just entered this shop?” said a very heavy and rumbling voice. “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 circumstances 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 passion:-- “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 scraping 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, 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.