ould not hearken
to this caprice of thine, nor wilt thou find me so indulgent on another
occasion. But for this once"--and he muttered some words and made a
sweeping gesture with his right hand--"thy desire is granted unto thee.
Of the palace and all that is therein there remaineth no trace!"

"Another surprise for poor old Wackerbath," thought Horace, "but a
pleasant one this time. My dear Mr. Fakrash," he said aloud, "I really
can't say how grateful I am to you. And now--I hate bothering you like
this, but if you _could_ manage to look in on Professor Futvoye----"

"What!" cried the Jinnee, "yet another request? Already!"

"Well, you promised you'd do that before, you know!" said Horace.

"For that matter," remarked Fakrash, "I have already fulfilled my
promise."

"You have?" Horace exclaimed. "And does he believe now that it's all
true about that bottle?"

"When I left him," answered the Jinnee, "all his doubts were removed."

"By Jove, you _are_ a trump!" cried Horace, only too glad to be able to
commend with sincerity. "And do you think, if I went to him now, I
should find him the same as usual?"

"Nay," said Fakrash, with his weak and yet inscrutable smile, "that is
more than I can promise thee."

"But why?" asked Horace, "if he knows all?"

There was the oddest expression in the Jinnee's furtive eyes: a kind of
elfin mischief combined with a sense of wrong-doing, like a naughty
child whose palate is still reminiscent of illicit jam. "Because," he
replied, with a sound between a giggle and a chuckle, "because, in order
to overcome his unbelief, it was necessary to transform him into a
one-eyed mule of hideous appearance."

"_What!_" cried Horace. But, whether to avoid thanks or explanations,
the Jinnee had disappeared with his customary abruptness.

"Fakrash!" shouted Horace, "Mr. Fakrash! Come back! Do you hear? I
_must_ speak to you!" There was no answer; the Jinnee might be well on
his way to Lake Chad, or Jericho, by that time--he was certainly far
enough from Great Cloister Street.

Horace sat down at his drawing-table, and, his head buried in his hands,
tried to think out this latest complication. Fakrash had transformed
Professor Futvoye into a one-eyed mule. It would have seemed incredible,
almost unthinkable, once, but so many impossibilities had happened to
Horace of late that one more made little or no strain upon his
credulity.

What he felt chiefly was the new barrier that this event