ng heart and an unsteady hand that he
pulled the visitors' bell at the Futvoyes' house that afternoon, for he
neither knew in what state he should find that afflicted family, nor how
they would regard his intrusion at such a time.

CHAPTER XII

THE MESSENGER OF HOPE

Jessie, the neat and pretty parlour-maid, opened the door with a smile
of welcome which Horace found reassuring. No girl, he thought, whose
master had suddenly been transformed into a mule could possibly smile
like that. The Professor, she told him, was not at home, which again was
comforting. For a _savant_, however careless about his personal
appearance, would scarcely venture to brave public opinion in the
semblance of a quadruped.

"Is the Professor out?" he inquired, to make sure.

"Not exactly out, sir," said the maid, "but particularly engaged,
working hard in his study, and not to be disturbed on no account."

This was encouraging, too, since a mule could hardly engage in literary
labour of any kind. Evidently the Jinnee must either have overrated his
supernatural powers, or else have been deliberately amusing himself at
Horace's expense.

"Then I will see Miss Futvoye," he said.

"Miss Sylvia is with the master, sir," said the girl; "but if you'll
come into the drawing-room I'll let Mrs. Futvoye know you are here."

He had not been in the drawing-room long before Mrs. Futvoye appeared,
and one glance at her face confirmed Ventimore's worst fears. Outwardly
she was calm enough, but it was only too obvious that her calmness was
the result of severe self-repression; her eyes, usually so shrewdly and
placidly observant, had a haggard and hunted look; her ears seemed on
the strain to catch some distant sound.

"I hardly thought we should see you to-day," she began, in a tone of
studied reserve; "but perhaps you came to offer some explanation of the
extraordinary manner in which you thought fit to entertain us last
night? If so----"

"The fact is," said Horace, looking into his hat, "I came because I was
rather anxious about the Professor.

"About my husband?" said the poor lady, with a really heroic effort to
appear surprised. "He is--as well as could be expected. Why should you
suppose otherwise?" she asked, with a flash of suspicion.

"I fancied perhaps that--that he mightn't be quite himself to-day," said
Horace, with his eyes on the carpet.

"I see," said Mrs. Futvoye, regaining her composure; "you were afraid
that all thos