urage in both hands and told him everything, just as
it had happened.

"And that's your story?" said the Professor, after listening to the
narrative with the utmost attention, when Horace came to the end.

"That's my story, sir," said Horace. "And I hope it has altered your
opinion of me."

"It has," replied the Professor, in an altered tone; "it has indeed.
Yours is a sad case--a very sad case."

"It's rather awkward, isn't it? But I don't mind so long as you
understand. And you'll tell Sylvia--as much as you think proper?"

"Yes--yes; I must tell Sylvia."

"And I may go on seeing her as usual?"

"Well--will you be guided by my advice--the advice of one who has lived
more than double your years?"

"Certainly," said Horace.

"Then, if I were you, I should go away at once, for a complete change of
air and scene."

"That's impossible, sir--you forget my work!"

"Never mind your work, my boy: leave it for a while, try a sea-voyage,
go round the world, get quite away from these associations."

"But I might come across the Jinnee again," objected Horace; "_he's_
travelling, as I told you."

"Yes, yes, to be sure. Still, I should go away. Consult any doctor, and
he'll tell you the same thing."

"Consult any---- Good God!" cried Horace; "I see what it is--you think
I'm mad!"

"No, no, my dear boy," said the Professor, soothingly, "not mad--nothing
of the sort; perhaps your mental equilibrium is just a trifle--it's
quite intelligible. You see, the sudden turn in your professional
prospects, coupled with your engagement to Sylvia--I've known stronger
minds than yours thrown off their balance--temporarily, of course, quite
temporarily--by less than that."

"You believe I am suffering from delusions?"

"I don't say that. I think you may see ordinary things in a distorted
light."

"Anyhow, you don't believe there really was a Jinnee inside that
bottle?"

"Remember, you yourself assured me at the time you opened it that you
found nothing whatever inside it. Isn't it more credible that you were
right then than that you should be right now?"

"Well," said Horace, "you saw all those black slaves; you ate, or tried
to eat, that unutterably beastly banquet; you heard that music--and then
there was the dancing-girl. And this hall we're in, this robe I've got
on--are _they_ delusions? Because if they are, I'm afraid you will have
to admit that _you're_ mad too."

"Ingeniously put," said the Professor. "I fear i