st it into deep waters, where no eye will look upon it more!"

"With all the pleasure in the world!" said Horace; "only you must keep
_your_ part of the bargain first. You will kindly obliterate all
recollection of yourself and the brass bottle from the minds of every
human being who has had anything to do with you or it."

"Not so," objected the Jinnee, "for thus wouldst thou forget thy
compact."

"Oh, very well, leave _me_ out, then," said Horace. "Not that anything
could make me forget _you_!"

Fakrash swept his right hand round in a half circle. "It is
accomplished," he said. "All recollection of myself and yonder bottle is
now erased from the memories of every one but thyself."

"But how about my client?" said Horace. "I can't afford to lose _him_,
you know."

"He shall return unto thee," said the Jinnee, trembling with impatience.
"Now perform thy share."

Horace had triumphed. It had been a long and desperate duel with this
singular being, who was at once so crafty and so childlike, so credulous
and so suspicious, so benevolent and so malign. Again and again he had
despaired of victory, but he had won at last. In another minute or so
this formidable Jinnee would be safely bottled once more, and powerless
to intermeddle and plague him for the future.

And yet, in the very moment of triumph, quixotic as such scruples may
seem to some, Ventimore's conscience smote him. He could not help a
certain pity for the old creature, who was shaking there convulsively
prepared to re-enter his bottle-prison rather than incur a wholly
imaginary doom. Fakrash had aged visibly within the last hour; now he
looked even older than his three thousand and odd years. True, he had
led Horace a fearful life of late, but at first, at least, his
intentions had been good. His gratitude, if mistaken in its form, was
the sign of a generous disposition. Not every Jinnee, surely, would
have endeavoured to press untold millions and honours and dignities of
all kinds upon him, in return for a service which most mortals would
have considered amply repaid by a brace of birds and an invitation to an
evening party.

And how was Horace treating _him_? He was taking what, in his heart, he
felt to be a rather mean advantage of the Jinnee's ignorance of modern
life to cajole him into returning to his captivity. Why not suffer him
to live out the brief remainder of his years (for he could hardly last
more than another century or two at most) in