ion of thought was too violent.

"I can't bother about that now, Mrs. Rapkin," he said; "we'll settle it
to-morrow. I'm too busy."

"I suppose most of these things will have to go back, sir, if they're
only sent on approval like?"

If he only knew where and how he could send them back! "I--I'm not
sure," he said; "I may have to keep them."

"Well, sir, bargain or none, I wouldn't have 'em as a gift myself, being
so dirty and fusty; they can't be no use to anybody, not to mention
there being no room to move with them blocking up all the place. I'd
better tell Rapkin to carry 'em all upstairs out of people's way."

"Certainly not," said Horace, sharply, by no means anxious for the
Rapkins to discover the real nature of his treasures. "Don't touch them,
either of you. Leave them exactly as they are, do you understand?"

"As you please, Mr. Ventimore, sir; only, if they're not to be
interfered with, I don't see myself how you're going to set your friends
down to dinner to-morrow, that's all."

And, indeed, considering that the table and every available chair, and
even the floor, were heaped so high with valuables that Horace himself
could only just squeeze his way between the piles, it seemed as if his
guests might find themselves inconveniently cramped.

"It will be all right," he said, with an optimism he was very far from
feeling; "we'll manage somehow--leave it to me."

Before he left for his office he took the precaution to baffle any
inquisitiveness on the part of his landlady by locking his sitting-room
door and carrying away the key, but it was in a very different mood from
his former light-hearted confidence that he sat down to his
drawing-board in Great Cloister Street that morning. He could not
concentrate his mind; his enthusiasm and his ideas had alike deserted
him.

He flung down the dividers he had been using and pushed away the nest of
saucers of Indian ink and colours in a fit of petulance. "It's no good,"
he exclaimed aloud; "I feel a perfect duffer this morning. I couldn't
even design a decent dog-kennel!"

Even as he spoke he became conscious of a presence in the room, and,
looking round, saw Fakrash the Jinnee standing at his elbow, smiling
down on him more benevolently than ever, and with a serene expectation
of being warmly welcomed and thanked, which made Horace rather ashamed
of his own inability to meet it.

"He's a thoroughly good-natured old chap," he thought,
self-reproachfully. "