at all--or, if any, that a date and meaning must be assigned to it
totally inconsistent with your story--you will accept our finding and
acknowledge that you have been under a delusion, and dismiss the whole
affair from your mind."

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

"Very well, then," said the Professor, as he removed the metal cap and
put it in his pocket; "you may depend upon hearing from me in a day or
two. Meantime, my boy," he continued, almost affectionately, "why not
try a short bicycle tour somewhere, hey? You're a cyclist, I
know--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 you
like it or not--you'll have to believe in that Jinnee of mine sooner or
later."

"I can scarcely conceive," replied the Professor, who was by this time
at the outer door, "any degree of evidence which could succeed in
convincing me that your brass bottle had ever contained an Arabian
Jinnee. However, I shall endeavour to preserve an open mind on the
subject. Good evening to you."

As soon as he was alone, Horace paced up and down his deserted halls in
a state of simmering rage as he thought how eagerly he had looked
forward to his little dinner-party; how intimate and delightful it might
have been, and what a monstrous and prolonged nightmare it had actually
proved. And at the end of it there he was--in a fantastic, impossible
dwelling, deserted by every one, his chances of setting himself right
with Sylvia hanging on the slenderest thread; unknown difficulties and
complications 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, had
contrived to ruin him more disastrously than if he had been his
bitterest foe! Ah! if he could be face to face with him once more--if
only for five minutes--he would be restrained by no false delicacy: he
would tell him fairly and plainly what a meddling, blundering old fool
he was. But Fakrash had taken his flight for ever: there were no means
of calling him back--nothing to be done now but go to bed and sleep--if
he could!

Exasperated by the sense of his utter helplessness, Ventimore went to
the arch which led to his bed-chamber and drew the curtain back with a
furious pull.