"H'm. Seems to be what the Arabs call a 'kum-kum,' probably used as a
sprinkler, or to hold rose-water. Hundreds of 'em about," commented the
Professor, crustily.

"It had a lid, riveted or soldered on," said Horace; "the general shape
was something like this ..." And he made a rapid sketch from memory,
which the Professor took reluctantly, and then adjusted his glasses with
some increase of interest.

"Ha--the form is antique, certainly. And the top hermetically fastened,
eh? That looks as if it might contain something."

"You don't think it has a genie inside, like the sealed jar the
fisherman found in the 'Arabian Nights'?" cried Sylvia. "What fun if it
had!"

"By genie, I presume you mean a _Jinnee_, which is the more correct and
scholarly term," said the Professor. "Female, _Jinneeyeh_, and plural
_Jinn_. No, I do _not_ contemplate that as a probable contingency. But
it is not quite impossible that a vessel closed as Mr. Ventimore
describes may have been designed as a receptacle for papyri or other
records of archaeological interest, which may be still in preservation. I
should recommend you, sir, to use the greatest precaution in removing
the lid--don't expose the documents, if any, too suddenly to the outer
air, and it would be better if you did not handle them yourself. I shall
be rather curious to hear whether it really does contain anything, and
if so, what."

"I will open it as carefully as possible," said Horace, "and whatever it
may contain, you may rely upon my letting you know at once."

He left shortly afterwards, encouraged by the radiant trust in Sylvia's
eyes, and thrilled by the secret pressure of her hand at parting.

He had been amply repaid for all the hours he had spent in the close
sale-room. His luck had turned at last: he was going to succeed; he felt
it in the air, as if he were already fanned by Fortune's pinions.

Still thinking of Sylvia, he let himself into the semi-detached,
old-fashioned house on the north side of Vincent Square, where he had
lodged for some years. It was nearly twelve o'clock, and his landlady,
Mrs. Rapkin, and her husband had already gone to bed.

Ventimore went up to his sitting-room, a comfortable apartment with two
long windows opening on to a trellised verandah and balcony--a room
which, as he had furnished and decorated it himself to suit his own
tastes, had none of the depressing ugliness of typical lodgings.

It was quite dark, for the season was too