"The accident did take place in the square certainly, and on the very
night for which I predicted it."

Malkiel the Second looked very thoughtful, even morose. He poured out
another glass of champagne, drank it slowly in sips, and when the glass
was empty ran the forefinger of his right hand slowly round and round
its edge.

"Can Madame be wrong?" he ejaculated at length, in a muffled voice of
meditation. "Can Madame be wrong?"

The Prophet gazed at him with profound curiosity, fascinated by the
circular movement of the yellow dogskin finger, and by the inward
murmur--so acutely mental--that accompanied it.

"Madame?" whispered the Prophet, drawing his cane chair noiselessly
forward.

"Ah!" rejoined Malkiel, gazing upon him with an eye whose pupil seemed
suddenly dilated to a most preternatural size. "Can she have been wrong
all these many years?"

"What--what about?" murmured the Prophet.

Malkiel the Second leaned his matted head in his hands and replied, as
if to himself,--

"Can it be that a prophet should live in Berkeley Square--not
Kimmins's"--here he raised his head, and raked his companion with a
glance that was almost fierce in its fervour of inquiry--"not Kimmins's