But he would not rest and sleep on the rug and tend my shirts. On the morning of the _Rewah's_ arrival he went away, and from his absence I fancied he had fallen into the hands of the law. But at midnight he came back, weak and husky. "Have got him," said he simply, and dragged his ulster down from the wall, wrapping it very tightly round him. "Now I go 'way." He went into the bedroom, and began counting over the tale of the week's wash, the boots, and so forth. "All right," he called into the other room. Then came in to say good-bye, walking slowly. "What's your name, marshter?" said he. I told him. He bowed and descended the staircase painfully. I had not paid him a penny, and since he did not ask for it, counted on his returning at least for wages. It was not till next morning that I found big dark drops on most of my clean shirts, and the housemaid complained of a trail of blood all down the staircase. "The Camel" had received payment in full from other hands than mine. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 30: "Turnovers," Vol. VIII.] THE LAST OF THE STORIES[31] _Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion._ --_Ecc._ iii, 22. "Kench with a long hand, lazy one," I said to the punkah coolie. "But I am tired," said the coolie. "Then go to Jehannum and get another man to pull," I replied, which was rude and, when you come to think of it, unnecessary. "Happy thought--go to Jehannum!" said a voice at my elbow. I turned and saw, seated on the edge of my bed, a large and luminous Devil. "I'm not afraid," I said. "You're an illusion bred by too much tobacco and not enough sleep. If I look at you steadily for a minute you will disappear. You are an _ignis fatuus_." "Fatuous yourself!" answered the Devil blandly. "Do you mean to say you don't know _me_?" He shrivelled up to the size of a blob of sediment on the end of a pen, and I recognised my old friend the Devil of Discontent, who lived in the bottom of the inkpot, but emerges half a day after each story has been printed with a host of useless suggestions for its betterment. "Oh, it's you, is it?" I said. "You're not due till next week. Get back to your inkpot." "Hush!" said the Devil. "I have an idea." "Too late, as usual. I know your ways." "No. It's a perfectly practicable one. Your swearing at the coolie suggested it. Did you ever hear of a man called Dante--charmin' fellow, friend o' mine?" "'Dante once prepared to paint a picture,'" I quoted. "Yes. I inspired that notion--but never mind. Are you willing to play Dante to my Virgil? I can't guarantee a nine-circle Inferno, any more than _you_ can turn out a cantoed epic, but there's absolutely no risk and--it will run to three columns at least." "But what sort of Hell do you own?" I said. "I fancied your operations were mostly above ground. You have no jurisdiction over the dead."