ngs had not gone off worse. The noiseless
and uncanny attendants, whom he did not know whether to regard as
Efreets, or demons, or simply illusions, but whose services he had no
wish to retain, had all withdrawn. Mrs. Futvoye was peacefully
slumbering, and her husband was in a better humour than he had been all
the evening.

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

Sylvia drew involuntarily closer to Horace; her mother woke with a
start, and the Professor looked up from the brass bottle with returning
irritation.

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

It was quite as much of a surprise for Horace, but he was spared the
humiliation of owning it by the entrance of some half-dozen dusky
musicians swathed in white and carrying various strangely fashioned
instruments, with which they squatted down in a semi-circle by the
opposite wall, and began to twang, and drub, and squall with the
complacent cacophony of an Eastern orchestra. Clearly Fakrash was
determined that nothing should be wanting to make the entertainment a
complete success.

"What a very extraordinary noise!" said Mrs. Futvoye; "surely they can't
mean it for music?"

"Yes, they do," said Horace; "it--it's really more harmonious than it
sounds--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; they
come from--the Arab Encampment at Earl's Court--parties and _fetes_
attended, you know. But they play _here_ for nothing; they--they want to
get their name known, you see; very deserving and respectable set of
fellows."

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

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

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

But there was something unpleasantly spectral about their shadowy