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 glass 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 glass of water!” she cried. “Get me a glass 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 glass 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 ejaculation 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.