"All pity hath been eradicated from my heart," returned Fakrash.
"Therefore prepare to die, for thou art presently about to perish in the
most unfortunate manner."

Ventimore could not repress a shudder. Hitherto he had never been able
to take Fakrash quite seriously, in spite of all his supernatural
powers; he had treated him with a half-kindly, half-contemptuous
tolerance, as a well-meaning, but hopelessly incompetent, old foozle.
That the Jinnee should ever become malevolent towards him had never
entered his head till now--and yet he undoubtedly had. How was he to
cajole and disarm this formidable being? He must keep cool and act
promptly, or he would never see Sylvia again.

As he sat there on the narrow ledge, with a faint and not unpleasant
smell of hops saluting his nostrils from some distant brewery, he tried
hard to collect his thoughts, but could not. He found himself, instead,
idly watching the busy, jostling crowd below, who were all unconscious
of the impending drama so high above them. Just over the rim of the dome
he could see the opaque white top of a lamp on a shelter, where a pigmy
constable stood, directing the traffic.

Would he look up if Horace called for help? Even if he could, what help
could he render? All he could do would be to keep the crowd back and
send for a covered stretcher. No, he would _not_ dwell on these horrors;
he _must_ fix his mind on some way of circumventing Fakrash.

How did the people in "The Arabian Nights" manage? The fisherman, for
instance? He persuaded _his_ Jinnee to return to the bottle by
pretending to doubt whether he had ever really been inside it.

But Fakrash, though simple enough in some respects, was not quite such a
fool as that. Sometimes the Jinn could be mollified and induced to grant
a reprieve by being told stories, one inside the other, like a nest of
Oriental boxes. Unfortunately Fakrash did not seem in the humour for
listening to apologues, and, even if he were, Horace could not think of
or improvise any just then. "Besides," he thought, "I can't sit up here
telling him anecdotes for ever. I'd almost sooner die!" Still, he
remembered that it was generally possible to draw an Arabian Efreet into
discussion: they all loved argument, and had a rough conception of
justice.

"I think, Mr. Fakrash," he said, "that, in common fairness, I have a
right to know what offence I have committed."

"To recite thy misdeeds," replied the Jinnee, "would occupy mu