allow things of them sort in here,
I can tell you."

The Prophet drew out half a sovereign, upon which a ray of sunshine
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.

"I don't know about by chance," rejoined the young librarian, his
literary sense again coming into play. "But it's--"

At this moment the library door opened, and a tall, thin, middle-aged
man walked in sideways with his feet very much turned out to right and
left of him.

"Any letters, Frederick Smith?" he said in a hollow voice, on reaching
the counter.

"Two, Mr. Sagittarius, I believe," replied the young librarian, moving
with respectful celerity towards the letter rack.

The Prophet started and looked eagerly at the newcomer. His eyes rested
upon an individual whose face was comic in outline with a serious
expression, and whose form suggested tragic farce dressed to represent
commonplace, as seen at Margate and elsewhere. A top hat, a spotted
collar, a pink shirt, a white satin tie, a chocolate brown frock coat,
brown trousers and boots, and a black overcoat thrown open from top to
bottom--these appurtenances, clerkly in their adherence to a certain
convention, could not wholly disguise the emotional expression that
seems sometimes to lurk in shape. The lines of Mr. Sagittarius defied
their clothing. His shoulders gave the lie to the chocolate brown frock
coat. His legs breathed defiance to the trousers that sheathed them.
One could, in fancy, see the former shrugged in all the abandonment
of third-act despair, behold the latter darting wildly for the cover
afforded by a copper, a cupboard, or any other friendly refuge of those
poor victims of ludicrous and terrific circumstance who are so sorely
smitten and afflicted upon the funny stage.

Mr. Sagittarius, in fine, seemed a