The Brass Bottle

by F. Anstey

  CHAPTER IX

  "PERSICOS ODI, PUER, APPARATUS"

  "So you've found your way here at last?" said Horace, as he shook handsheartily with the Professor and Mrs. Futvoye. "I can't tell you howdelighted I am to see you."

  As a matter of fact, he was very far from being at ease, which made himrather over-effusive, but he was determined that, if he could help it,he would not betray the slightest consciousness of anything _bizarre_ orunusual in his domestic arrangements.

  "And these," said Mrs. Futvoye, who was extremely stately in black,with old lace and steel embroidery--"these are the bachelor lodgings youwere so modest about! Really," she added, with a humorous twinkle in hershrewd eyes, "you young men seem to understand how to make yourselvescomfortable--don't they, Anthony?"

  "They do, indeed," said the Professor, dryly, though it manifestly costhim some effort to conceal his appreciation. "To produce such results asthese must, if I mistake not, have entailed infinite research--andconsiderable expense."

  "No," said Horace, "no. You--you'd be surprised if you knew how little."

  "I should have imagined," retorted the Professor, "that _any_ outlay onapartments which I presume you do not contemplate occupying for anextended period must be money thrown away. But, doubtless, you knowbest."

  "But your rooms are quite wonderful, Horace!" cried Sylvia, her charmingeyes dilating with admiration. "And where, _where_ did you get thatmagnificent dressing-gown? I never saw anything so lovely in my life!"

  She herself was lovely enough in a billowy, shimmering frock of adelicate apple-green hue, her only ornament a deep-blue Egyptian scarabwith spread wings, which was suspended from her neck by a slender goldchain.

  "I--I ought to apologise for receiving you in this costume," saidHorace, with embarrassment; "but the fact is, I couldn't find my eveningclothes anywhere, so--so I put on the first things that came to hand."

  "It is hardly necessary," said the Professor, conscious of beingcorrectly clad, and unconscious that his shirt-front was bulging and hislong-eared white tie beginning to work up towards his left jaw--"hardlynecessary to offer any apology for the simplicity of your costume--whichis entirely in keeping with the--ah--strictly Oriental character of yourinterior."

  "_I_ feel dreadfully out of keeping!" said Sylvia, "for there's nothingin the least Oriental about _me_--unless it's my scarab--and he's Idon't know how many centuries behind the time, poor dear!"

  "If you said 'thousands of years,' my dear," corrected the Professor,"you would be more accurate. That scarab was taken out of a tomb of thethirteenth dynasty."

  "Well, I'm sure he'd rather be where he is," said Sylvia, and Ventimoreentirely agreed with her. "Horace, I _must_ look at everything. Howclever and original of you to transform an ordinary London house intothis!"

  "Oh, well, you see," explained Horace, "it--it wasn't exactly done byme."

  "Whoever did it," said the Professor, "must have devoted considerablestudy to Eastern art and architecture. May I ask the name of the firmwho executed the alterations?"

  "I really couldn't tell you, sir," answered Horace, who was beginningto understand how very bad a _mauvais quart d'heure_ can be.

  "You can't tell me!" exclaimed the Professor. "You order theseextensive, and _I_ should say expensive, decorations, and you don't knowthe firm you selected to carry them out!"

  "Of course I _know_," said Horace, "only I don't happen to remember atthis moment. Let me see, now. Was it Liberty? No, I'm almost certain itwasn't Liberty. It might have been Maple, but I'm not sure. Whoever diddo it, they were marvellously cheap."

  "I am glad to hear it," said the Professor, in his most unpleasant tone."Where is your dining-room?"

  "Why, I rather think," said Horace, helplessly, as he saw a train ofattendants laying a round cloth on the floor, "I rather think _this_ isthe dining-room."

  "You appear to be in some doubt?" said the Professor.

  "I leave it to them--it depends where they choose to lay the cloth,"said Horace. "Sometimes in one place; sometimes in another. There's agreat charm in uncertainty," he faltered.

  "Doubtless," said the Professor.

  By this time two of the slaves, under the direction of a tall andturbaned black, had set a low ebony stool, inlaid with silver andtortoiseshell in strange devices, on the round carpet, when otherattendants followed with a circular silver tray containing covereddishes, which they placed on the stool and salaamed.

  "Your--ah--groom of the chambers," said the Professor, "seems to havedecided that we should dine here. I observe they are making signs to youthat the food is on the table."

  "So it is," said Ventimore. "Shall we sit down?"

  "But, my dear Horace," said Mrs. Futvoye, "your butler has forgotten thechairs."

  "You don't appear to realise, my dear," said the Professor, "that insuch an interior as this chairs would be hopelessly incongruous."

  "I'm afraid there aren't any," said Horace, for there was nothing butfour fat cushions. "Let's sit down on these," he proposed. "It--it'smore fun!"

  "At my time of life," said the Professor, irritably, as he let himselfdown on the plumpest cushion, "such fun as may be derived from eatingone's meals on the floor fails to appeal to my sense of humour. However,I admit that it is thoroughly Oriental."

  "_I_ think it's delightful," said Sylvia; "ever so much nicer than astiff, conventional dinner-party."

  "One may be unconventional," remarked her father, "without escaping thepenalty of stiffness. Go away, sir! go away!" he added snappishly, toone of the slaves, who was attempting to pour water over his hands."Your servant, Ventimore, appears to imagine that I go out to dinnerwithout taking the trouble to wash my hands previously. This, I maymention, is _not_ the case."

  "It's only an Eastern ceremony, Professor," said Horace.

  "I am perfectly well aware of what is customary in the East," retortedthe Professor; "it does not follow that such--ah--hygienic precautionsare either necessary or desirable at a Western table."

  Horace made no reply; he was too much occupied in gazing blankly at thesilver dish-covers and wondering what in the world might be underneath;nor was his perplexity relieved when the covers were removed, for he wasquite at a loss to guess how he was supposed to help the contentswithout so much as a fork.

  The chief attendant, however, solved that difficulty by intimating inpantomime that the guests were expected to use their fingers.

  Sylvia accomplished this daintily and with intense amusement, but herfather and mother made no secret of their repugnance. "If I were diningin the desert with a Sheik, sir," observed the Professor, "I should, Ihope, know how to conform to his habits and prejudices. Here, in theheart of London, I confess all this strikes me as a piece of needlesspedantry."

  "I'm very sorry," said Horace; "I'd have some knives and forks if Icould--but I'm afraid these fellows don't even understand what they are,so it's useless to order any. We--we must rough it a little, that's all.I hope that--er--fish is all right, Professor?"

  He did not know precisely what kind of fish it was, but it was fried inoil of sesame and flavoured with a mixture of cinnamon and ginger, andthe Professor did not appear to be making much progress with it.Ventimore himself would have infinitely preferred the original cod andoyster sauce, but that could not be helped now.

  "Thank you," said the Professor, "it is curious--but characteristic. Not_any_ more, thank you."

  Horace could only trust that the next course would be more of a success.It was a dish of mutton, stewed with peaches, jujubes and sugar, whichSylvia declared was delicious. Her parents made no comment.

  "Might I ask for something to drink?" said the Professor, presently;whereupon a cupbearer poured him a goblet of iced sherbet perfumed withconserve of violets.

  "I'm very sorry, my dear fellow," he said, after sipping it, "but if Idrink this I shall be ill all next day. If I might have a glass ofwine----"

  Another slave instantly handed him a cup of wine, which he tasted andset down with a wry
face and a shudder. Horace tried some afterwards,and was not surprised. It was a strong, harsh wine, in which goatskinand resin struggled for predominance.

  "It's an old and, I make no doubt, a fine wine," observed the Professor,with studied politeness, "but I fancy it must have suffered intransportation. I really think that, with my gouty tendency, a littlewhisky and Apollinaris would be better for me--if you keep suchoccidental fluids in the house?"

  Horace felt convinced that it would be useless to order the slaves tobring whisky or Apollinaris, which were of course, unknown in theJinnee's time, so he could do nothing but apologise for their absence.

  "No matter," said the Professor; "I am not so thirsty that I cannot waittill I get home."

  It was some consolation that both Sylvia and her mother commended thesherbet, and even appreciated--or were so obliging as to say theyappreciated--the _entree_, which consisted of rice and mincemeat wrappedin vine-leaves, and certainly was not appetising in appearance, besidesbeing difficult to dispose of gracefully.

  It was followed by a whole lamb fried in oil, stuffed with poundedpistachio nuts, pepper, nutmeg, and coriander seeds, and liberallybesprinkled with rose-water and musk.

  Only Horace had sufficient courage to attack the lamb--and he foundreason to regret it. Afterwards came fowls stuffed with raisins,parsley, and crumbled bread, and the banquet ended with pastry of weirdforms and repellent aspect.

  "I hope," said Horace, anxiously, "you don't find this Eastern cookeryvery--er--unpalatable?"--he himself was feeling distinctly unwell: "it'srather a change from the ordinary routine."

  "I have made a truly wonderful dinner, thank you," replied theProfessor, not, it is to be feared, without intention. "Even in the EastI have eaten nothing approaching this."

  "But where did your landlady pick up this extraordinary cooking, my dearHorace?" said Mrs. Futvoye. "I thought you said she was merely a plaincook. Has she ever lived in the East?"

  "Not exactly _in_ the East," exclaimed Horace; "not what you would call_living_ there. The fact is," he continued, feeling that he was indanger of drivelling, and that he had better be as candid as he could,"this dinner _wasn't_ cooked by her. She--she was obliged to go awayquite suddenly. So the dinner was all sent in by--by a sort ofcontractor, you know. He supplies the whole thing, waiters and all."

  "I was thinking," said the Professor, "that for a bachelor--an _engaged_bachelor--you seemed to maintain rather a large establishment."

  "Oh, they're only here for the evening, sir," said Horace. "Capitalfellows--more picturesque than the local greengrocer--and they don'tbreathe on the top of your head."

  "They're perfect dears, Horace," remarked Sylvia; "only--well, just a_little_ creepy-crawly to look at!"

  "It would ill become me to criticise the style and method of ourentertainment," put in the Professor, acidly, "otherwise I might betempted to observe that it scarcely showed that regard for economy whichI should have----"

  "Now, Anthony," put in his wife, "don't let us have any fault-finding.I'm sure Horace has done it all delightfully--yes, delightfully; andeven if he _has_ been just a little extravagant, it's not as if he wasobliged to be as economical _now_, you know!"

  "My dear," said the Professor, "I have yet to learn that the prospect ofan increased income in the remote future is any justification forreckless profusion in the present."

  "If you only knew," said Horace, "you wouldn't call it profusion.It--it's not at all the dinner I meant it to be, and I'm afraid itwasn't particularly nice--but it's certainly not expensive."

  "Expensive is, of course, a very relative term. But I think I have theright to ask whether this is the footing on which you propose to beginyour married life?"

  It was an extremely awkward question, as the reader will perceive. IfVentimore replied--as he might with truth--that he had no intentionwhatever of maintaining his wife in luxury such as that, he stoodconvicted of selfish indulgence as a bachelor; if, on the other hand, hedeclared that he _did_ propose to maintain his wife in the samefantastic and exaggerated splendour as the present, it would certainlyconfirm her father's disbelief in his prudence and economy.

  And it was that egregious old ass of a Jinnee, as Horace thought, withsuppressed rage, who had let him in for all this, and who was now farbeyond all remonstrance or reproach!

  Before he could bring himself to answer the question, the attendants hadnoiselessly removed the tray and stool, and were handing round rosewaterin a silver ewer and basin, the character of which, luckily orotherwise, turned the Professor's inquisitiveness into a differentchannel.

  "These are not bad--really not bad at all," he said, inspecting thedesign. "Where did you manage to pick them up?"

  "I didn't," said Horace; "they're provided by the--the person whosupplies the dinner."

  "Can you give me his address?" said the Professor, scenting a bargain;"because really, you know, these things are probably antiques--much toogood to be used for business purposes."

  "I'm wrong," said Horace, lamely; "these particular things are--are lentby an eccentric Oriental gentleman, as a great favour."

  "Do I know him? Is he a collector of such things?"

  "You wouldn't have met him; he--he's lived a very retired life of late."

  "I should very much like to see his collection. If you could give me aletter of introduction----"

  "No," said Horace, in a state of prickly heat; "it wouldn't be any use.His collection is never shown. He--he's a most peculiar man. And justnow he's abroad."

  "Ah! pardon me if I've been indiscreet; but I concluded from what yousaid that this--ah--banquet was furnished by a professional caterer."

  "Oh, the banquet? Yes, _that_ came from the Stores," said Horace,mendaciously. "The--the Oriental Cookery Department. They've juststarted it, you know; so--so I thought I'd give them a trial. But it'snot what I call properly organised yet."

  The slaves were now, with low obeisances, inviting them to seatthemselves on the divan which lined part of the hall.

  "Ha!" said the Professor, as he rose from his cushion, cracking audibly,"so we're to have our coffee and what not over there, hey?... Well, myboy, I shan't be sorry, I confess, to have something to lean my backagainst--and a cigar, a mild cigar, will--ah--aid digestion. You _do_smoke here?"

  "Smoke?" said Horace, "Why, of course! All over the place. Here," hesaid, clapping his hands, which brought an obsequious slave instantly tohis side; "just bring coffee and cigars, will you?"

  The slave rolled his brandy-ball eyes in obvious perplexity.

  "Coffee," said Horace; "you must know what coffee is. And cigarettes.Well, _chibouks_, then--'hubble-bubbles'--if that's what you call them."

  But the slave clearly did not understand, and it suddenly struck Horacethat, since 'tobacco and coffee were not introduced, even in the East,till long after the Jinnee's time, he, as the founder of the feast,would naturally be unaware how indispensable they had become at thepresent day.

  "I'm really awfully sorry," he said; "but they don't seem to haveprovided any. I shall speak to the manager about it. And, unfortunately,I don't know where my own cigars are."

  "It's of no consequence," said the Professor, with the sort of stoicismthat minds very much. "I am a moderate smoker at best, and Turkishcoffee, though delicious, is apt to keep me awake. But if you could letme have a look at that brass bottle you got at poor Collingham's sale, Ishould be obliged to you."

  Horace had no idea where it was then, nor could he, until the Professorcame to the rescue with a few words of Arabic, manage to make the slavescomprehend what he wished them to find.

  At length, however, two of them appeared, bearing the brass bottle withevery sign of awe, and depositing it at Ventimore's feet.

  Professor Futvoye, after wiping and adjusting his glasses, proceeded toexamine the vessel. "It certainly is a most unusual type of brassware,"he said, "as unique in its way as the silver ewer and basin; and, as youthought, there does seem to be something resembling an inscription onthe cap, t
hough in this dim light it is almost impossible to be sure."

  While he was poring over it, Horace seated himself on the divan bySylvia's side, hoping for one of the whispered conversations permittedto affianced lovers; he had pulled through the banquet somehow, and onthe whole he felt thankful things had not gone off worse. The noiselessand uncanny attendants, whom he did not know whether to regard asEfreets, or demons, or simply illusions, but whose services he had nowish to retain, had all withdrawn. Mrs. Futvoye was peacefullyslumbering, and her husband was in a better humour than he had been allthe evening.

  Suddenly from behind the hangings of one of the archways came strange,discordant sounds, barbaric janglings and thumpings, varied by yowls asof impassioned cats.

  Sylvia drew involuntarily closer to Horace; her mother woke with astart, and the Professor looked up from the brass bottle with returningirritation.

  "What's this? What's this?" he demanded; "some fresh surprise in storefor us?"

  It was quite as much of a surprise for Horace, but he was spared thehumiliation of owning it by the entrance of some half-dozen duskymusicians swathed in white and carrying various strangely fashionedinstruments, with which they squatted down in a semi-circle by theopposite wall, and began to twang, and drub, and squall with thecomplacent cacophony of an Eastern orchestra. Clearly Fakrash wasdetermined that nothing should be wanting to make the entertainment acomplete success.

  "What a very extraordinary noise!" said Mrs. Futvoye; "surely they can'tmean it for music?"

  "Yes, they do," said Horace; "it--it's really more harmonious than itsounds--you have to get accustomed to the--er--notation. When you do,it's rather soothing than otherwise."

  "I dare say," said the poor lady. "And do _they_ come from the Stores,too?"

  "No," said Horace, with a fine assumption of candour, "they don't; theycome from--the Arab Encampment at Earl's Court--parties and _fetes_attended, you know. But they play _here_ for nothing; they--they want toget their name known, you see; very deserving and respectable set offellows."

  "My dear Horace!" remarked Mrs. Futvoye, "if they expect to getengagements for parties and so on, they really ought to try and learn atune of _some_ sort."

  "I understand, Horace," whispered Sylvia, "it's very naughty of you tohave gone to all this trouble and expense (for, of course, it _has_ costyou a lot) just to please us; but, whatever, dad may say, I love you allthe better for doing it!"

  And her hand stole softly into his, and he felt that he could forgiveFakrash everything, even--even the orchestra.

  But there was something unpleasantly spectral about their shadowy forms,which showed in grotesquely baggy and bulgy shapes in the uncertainlight. Some of them wore immense and curious white head-dresses, whichgave them the appearance of poulticed thumbs; and they all went onscraping and twiddling and caterwauling with a doleful monotony thatHorace felt must be getting on his guests' nerves, as it certainly wason his own.

  He did not know how to get rid of them, but he sketched a kind ofgesture in the air, intended to intimate that, while their efforts hadafforded the keenest pleasure to the company generally, they wereunwilling to monopolise them any longer, and the artists were at libertyto retire.

  Perhaps there is no art more liable to misconstruction than pantomime;certainly, Ventimore's efforts in this direction were misunderstood, forthe music became wilder, louder, more aggressively and abominably out oftune--and then a worse thing happened.

  For the curtains separated, and, heralded by sharp yelps from theperformers, a female figure floated into the hall and began to dancewith a slow and sinuous grace.

  Her beauty, though of a pronounced Oriental type, was unmistakable, evenin the subdued light which fell on her; her diaphanous robe indicated afaultless form; her dark tresses were braided with sequins; she had thelong, lustrous eyes, the dusky cheeks artificially whitened, and thefixed scarlet smile of the Eastern dancing-girl of all time.

  And she paced the floor with her tinkling feet, writhing and undulatinglike some beautiful cobra, while the players worked themselves up to yethigher and higher stages of frenzy.

  Ventimore, as he sat there looking helplessly on, felt a return of hisresentment against the Jinnee. It was really too bad of him; he ought,at his age, to have known better!

  Not that there was anything objectionable in the performance itself; butstill, it was _not_ the kind of entertainment for such an occasion.Horace wished now he had mentioned to Fakrash who the guests were whomhe expected, and then perhaps even the Jinnee would have exercised moretact in his arrangements.

  "And does this girl come from Earl's Court?" inquired Mrs. Futvoye, whowas now thoroughly awake.

  "Oh dear, no," said Horace; "I engaged _her_ at--at Harrod's--theEntertainment Bureau. They told me there she was rather good--struck outa line of her own, don't you know. But perfectly correct; she--she onlydoes this to support an invalid aunt."

  These statements were, as he felt even in making them, not onlygratuitous, but utterly unconvincing, but he had arrived at thatcondition in which a man discovers with terror the unsuspected amount ofmendacity latent in his system.

  "I should have thought there were other ways of supporting invalidaunts," remarked Mrs. Futvoye. "What is this young lady's name?"

  "Tinkler," said Horace, on the spur of the moment. "Miss ClementineTinkler."

  "But surely she is a foreigner?"

  "Mademoiselle, I ought to have said. And Tinkla--with an 'a,' you know.I believe her mother was of Arabian extraction--but I really don'tknow," explained Horace, conscious that Sylvia had withdrawn her handfrom his, and was regarding him with covert anxiety.

  "I really _must_ put a stop to this," he thought.

  "You're getting bored by all this, darling," he said aloud; "so am I.I'll tell them to go." And he rose and held out his hand as a sign thatthe dance should cease.

  It ceased at once; but, to his unspeakable horror, the dancer crossedthe floor with a swift jingling rush, and sank in a gauzy heap at hisfeet, seizing his hand in both hers and covering it with kisses, whileshe murmured speeches in some tongue unknown to him.

  "Is this a usual feature in Miss Tinkla's entertainments, may I ask?"said Mrs. Futvoye, bristling with not unnatural indignation.

  "I really don't know," said the unhappy Horace; "I can't make out whatshe's saying."

  "If I understand her rightly," said the Professor, "she is addressingyou as the 'light of her eyes and the vital spirit of her heart.'"

  "Oh!" said Horace, "she's quite mistaken, you know. It--it's theemotional artist temperament--they don't _mean_ anything by it. My--mydear young lady," he added, "you've danced most delightfully, and I'msure we're all most deeply indebted to you; but we won't detain you anylonger. Professor," he added, as she made no offer to rise, "_will_ youkindly explain to them in Arabic that I should be obliged by their goingat once?"

  The Professor said a few words, which had the desired effect. The girlgave a little scream and scudded through the archway, and the musiciansseized their instruments and scuttled after her.

  "I am so sorry," said Horace, whose evening seemed to him to have beenchiefly spent in apologies; "it's not at all the kind of entertainmentone would expect from a place like Whiteley's."

  "By no means," agreed the Professor; "but I understood you to say MissTinkla was recommended to you by Harrod's?"

  "Very likely, sir," said Horace; "but that doesn't affect the case. Ishouldn't expect it from _them_."

  "Probably they don't know how shamelessly that young person conductsherself," said Mrs. Futvoye. "And I think it only right that they shouldbe told."

  "I shall complain, of course," said Horace. "I shall put it verystrongly."

  "A protest would have more weight coming from a woman," said Mrs.Futvoye; "and, as a shareholder in the company, I shall feel bound----"

  "No, I wouldn't," said Horace; "in fact, you mustn't. For, now I come tothink of it, she didn't come from Harrod's, after all, or Whiteley'seither."
/>   "Then perhaps you will be good enough to inform us where she _did_ comefrom?"

  "I would if I knew," said Horace; "but I don't."

  "What!" cried the Professor, sharply, "do you mean to say you can'taccount for the existence of a dancing-girl who--in my daughter'spresence--kisses your hand and addresses you by endearing epithets?"

  "Oriental metaphor!" said Horace. "She was a little overstrung. Ofcourse, if I had had any idea she would make such a scene as that----Sylvia," he broke off, "_you_ don't doubt me?"

  "No, Horace," said Sylvia, simply, "I'm sure you must have _some_explanation--only I do think it would be better if you gave it."

  "If I _told_ you the truth," said Horace, slowly, "you would none of youbelieve me!"

  "Then you admit," put in the Professor, "that hitherto you have _not_been telling the truth?"

  "Not as invariably as I could have wished," Horace confessed.

  "So I suspected. Then, unless you can bring yourself to be perfectlycandid, you can hardly wonder at our asking you to consider yourengagement as broken off?"

  "Broken off!" echoed Horace. "Sylvia, you won't give me up! You _know_ Iwouldn't do anything unworthy of you!"

  "I'm certain that you can't have done anything which would make me loveyou one bit the less if I knew it. So why not be quite open with us?"

  "Because, darling," said Horace, "I'm in such a fix that it would onlymake matters worse."

  "In that case," said the Professor, "and as it is already rather late,perhaps you will allow one of your numerous retinue to call afour-wheeler?"

  Horace clapped his hands, but no one answered the summons, and he couldnot find any of the slaves in the antechamber.

  "I'm afraid all the servants have left," he explained; and it is to befeared he would have added that they were all obliged to return to thecontractor by eleven, only he caught the Professor's eye and decidedthat he had better refrain. "If you will wait here, I'll go out andfetch a cab," he added.

  "There is no occasion to trouble you," said the Professor; "my wife anddaughter have already got their things on, and we will walk until wefind a cab. Now, Mr. Ventimore, we will bid you good-night and good-bye.For, after what has happened, you will, I trust, have the good taste todiscontinue your visits and make no attempt to see Sylvia again."

  "Upon my honour," protested Horace, "I have done nothing to warrant youin shutting your doors against me."

  "I am unable to agree with you. I have never thoroughly approved of yourengagement, because, as I told you at the time, I suspected you ofrecklessness in money matters. Even in accepting your invitationto-night I warned you, as you may remember, not to make the occasion anexcuse for foolish extravagance. I come here, and find you in apartmentsfurnished and decorated (as you informed us) by yourself, and on a scalewhich would be prodigal in a millionaire. You have a suite of retainerswhich (except for their nationality and imperfect discipline) a princemight envy. You provide a banquet of--hem!--delicacies which must havecost you infinite trouble and unlimited expense--this, after I hadexpressly stipulated for a quiet family dinner! Not content with that,you procure for our diversion Arab music and dancing of a--of a highlyrecondite character. I should be unworthy of the name of father, sir,if I were to entrust my only daughter's happiness to a young man with solittle common sense, so little self-restraint. And she will understandmy motives and obey my wishes."

  "You're right, Professor, according to your lights," admitted Horace."And yet--confound it all!--you're utterly wrong, too!"

  "Oh, Horace," cried Sylvia; "if you had only listened to dad, and notgone to all this foolish, foolish expense, we might have been so happy!"

  "But I have gone to no expense. All this hasn't cost me a penny!"

  "Ah, there _is_ some mystery! Horace, if you love me, you willexplain--here, now, before it's too late!"

  "My darling," groaned Horace, "I would, like a shot, if I thought itwould be of the least use!"

  "Hitherto," said the Professor, "you cannot be said to have been happyin your explanations--and I should advise you not to venture on anymore. Good-night, once more. I only wish it were possible, withoutneedless irony, to make the customary acknowledgments for a pleasantevening."

  Mrs. Futvoye had already hurried her daughter away, and, though she hadleft her husband to express his sentiments unaided, she made itsufficiently clear that she entirely agreed with them.

  Horace stood in the outer hall by the fountain, in which his drownedchrysanthemums were still floating, and gazed in stupefied despair afterhis guests as they went down the path to the gate. He knew only too wellthat they would never cross his threshold, nor he theirs, again.

  Suddenly he came to himself with a start. "I'll try it!" he cried. "Ican't and won't stand this!" And he rushed after them bareheaded.

  "Professor!" he said breathlessly, as he caught him up, "one moment. Onsecond thoughts, I _will_ tell you my secret, if you will promise me apatient hearing."

  "The pavement is hardly the place for confidences," replied theProfessor, "and, if it were, your costume is calculated to attract moreremark than is desirable. My wife and daughter have gone on--if you willpermit me, I will overtake them--I shall be at home to-morrow morning,should you wish to see me."

  "No--to-night, to-night!" urged Horace. "I can't sleep in that infernalplace with this on my mind. Put Mrs. Futvoye and Sylvia into a cab,Professor, and come back. It's not late, and I won't keep you long--butfor Heaven's sake, let me tell you my story at once."

  Probably the Professor was not without some curiosity on the subject; atall events he yielded. "Very well," he said, "go into the house and Iwill rejoin you presently. Only remember," he added, "that I shallaccept no statement without the fullest proof. Otherwise you will merelybe wasting your time and mine."

  "Proof!" thought Horace, gloomily, as he returned to his Arabian halls,"The only decent proof I could produce would be old Fakrash, and he'snot likely to turn up again--especially now I want him."

  A little later the Professor returned, having found a cab and despatchedhis women-folk home. "Now, young man," he said, as he unwound hiswrapper and seated himself on the divan by Horace's side, "I can giveyou just ten minutes to tell your story in, so let me beg you to make itas brief and as comprehensible as you can."

  It was not exactly an encouraging invitation in the circumstances, butHorace took his courage in both hands and told him everything, just asit had happened.

  "And that's your story?" said the Professor, after listening to thenarrative with the utmost attention, when Horace came to the end.

  "That's my story, sir," said Horace. "And I hope it has altered youropinion of me."

  "It has," replied the Professor, in an altered tone; "it has indeed.Yours is a sad case--a very sad case."

  "It's rather awkward, isn't it? But I don't mind so long as youunderstand. And you'll tell Sylvia--as much as you think proper?"

  "Yes--yes; I must tell Sylvia."

  "And I may go on seeing her as usual?"

  "Well--will you be guided by my advice--the advice of one who has livedmore than double your years?"

  "Certainly," said Horace.

  "Then, if I were you, I should go away at once, for a complete change ofair and scene."

  "That's impossible, sir--you forget my work!"

  "Never mind your work, my boy: leave it for a while, try a sea-voyage,go round the world, get quite away from these associations."

  "But I might come across the Jinnee again," objected Horace; "_he's_travelling, as I told you."

  "Yes, yes, to be sure. Still, I should go away. Consult any doctor, andhe'll tell you the same thing."

  "Consult any---- Good God!" cried Horace; "I see what it is--you thinkI'm mad!"

  "No, no, my dear boy," said the Professor, soothingly, "not mad--nothingof the sort; perhaps your mental equilibrium is just a trifle--it'squite intelligible. You see, the sudden turn in your professionalprospects, coupled with your engagement to Sylvia--I've known strongerm
inds than yours thrown off their balance--temporarily, of course, quitetemporarily--by less than that."

  "You believe I am suffering from delusions?"

  "I don't say that. I think you may see ordinary things in a distortedlight."

  "Anyhow, you don't believe there really was a Jinnee inside thatbottle?"

  "Remember, you yourself assured me at the time you opened it that youfound nothing whatever inside it. Isn't it more credible that you wereright then than that you should be right now?"

  "Well," said Horace, "you saw all those black slaves; you ate, or triedto eat, that unutterably beastly banquet; you heard that music--and thenthere was the dancing-girl. And this hall we're in, this robe I've goton--are _they_ delusions? Because if they are, I'm afraid you will haveto admit that _you're_ mad too."

  "Ingeniously put," said the Professor. "I fear it is unwise to arguewith you. Still, I will venture to assert that a strong imagination likeyours, over-heated and saturated with Oriental ideas--to which I fear Imay have contributed--is not incapable of unconsciously assisting in itsown deception. In other words, I think that you may have provided allthis yourself from various quarters without any clear recollection ofthe fact."

  "That's very scientific and satisfactory as far as it goes, my dearProfessor," said Horace; "but there's one piece of evidence which mayupset your theory--and that's this brass bottle."

  "If your reasoning powers were in their normal condition," said theProfessor, compassionately, "you would see that the mere production ofan empty bottle can be no proof of what it contained--or, for thatmatter, that it ever contained anything at all!"

  "Oh, I see _that_," said Horace; "but _this_ bottle has a stopper withwhat you yourself admit to be an inscription of some sort. Suppose thatinscription confirms my story--what then? All I ask you to do is to makeit out for yourself before you decide that I'm either a liar or alunatic."

  "I warn you," said the Professor, "that if you are trusting to my beingunable to decipher the inscription, you are deceiving yourself. Yourepresent that this bottle belongs to the period of Solomon--that is,about a thousand years B.C. Probably you are not aware that the earliestspecimens of Oriental metal-work in existence are not older than thetenth century of our era. But, granting that it is as old as you allege,I shall certainly be able to read any inscription there may be on it. Ihave made out clay tablets in Cuneiform which were certainly written athousand years before Solomon's time."

  "So much the better," said Horace. "I'm as certain as I can be that,whatever is written on that lid--whether it's Phoenician, or Cuneiform,or anything else--must have some reference to a Jinnee confined in thebottle, or at least bear the seal of Solomon. But there the thingis--examine it for yourself."

  "Not now," said the Professor; "it's too late, and the light here is notstrong enough. But I'll tell you what I will do. I'll take this stopperthing home with me, and examine it carefully to-morrow--on onecondition."

  "You have only to name it," said Horace.

  "My condition is, that if I, and one or two other Orientalists to whom Imay submit it, come to the conclusion that there is no real inscriptionat all--or, if any, that a date and meaning must be assigned to ittotally inconsistent with your story--you will accept our finding andacknowledge that you have been under a delusion, and dismiss the wholeaffair from your mind."

  "Oh, I don't mind agreeing to _that_," said Horace, "particularly asit's my only chance."

  "Very well, then," said the Professor, as he removed the metal cap andput it in his pocket; "you may depend upon hearing from me in a day ortwo. Meantime, my boy," he continued, almost affectionately, "why nottry a short bicycle tour somewhere, hey? You're a cyclist, Iknow--anything but allow yourself to dwell on Oriental subjects."

  "It's not so easy to avoid dwelling on them as you think!" said Horace,with rather a dreary laugh. "And I fancy, Professor, that--whether youlike it or not--you'll have to believe in that Jinnee of mine sooner orlater."

  "I can scarcely conceive," replied the Professor, who was by this timeat the outer door, "any degree of evidence which could succeed inconvincing me that your brass bottle had ever contained an ArabianJinnee. However, I shall endeavour to preserve an open mind on thesubject. Good evening to you."

  As soon as he was alone, Horace paced up and down his deserted halls ina state of simmering rage as he thought how eagerly he had lookedforward to his little dinner-party; how intimate and delightful it mighthave been, and what a monstrous and prolonged nightmare it had actuallyproved. And at the end of it there he was--in a fantastic, impossibledwelling, deserted by every one, his chances of setting himself rightwith Sylvia hanging on the slenderest thread; unknown difficulties andcomplications threatening him from every side!

  He owed all this to Fakrash. Yes, that incorrigibly grateful Jinnee,with his antiquated notions and his high-flown professions, hadcontrived to ruin him more disastrously than if he had been hisbitterest foe! Ah! if he could be face to face with him once more--ifonly for five minutes--he would be restrained by no false delicacy: hewould tell him fairly and plainly what a meddling, blundering old foolhe was. But Fakrash had taken his flight for ever: there were no meansof calling him back--nothing to be done now but go to bed and sleep--ifhe could!

  Exasperated by the sense of his utter helplessness, Ventimore went tothe arch which led to his bed-chamber and drew the curtain back with afurious pull. And just within the archway, standing erect with foldedarms and the smile of fatuous benignity which Ventimore was beginning toknow and dread, was the form of Fakrash-el-Aamash, the Jinnee!