Mr. Carteret watched him go with chagrin, but he felt that it would be rude for him to follow, so he sat where he was, and bore up under the buried city. The talk went on until suddenly the cathedral clock in the hallway began to strike in muffled arpeggios. Whitehouse started up and looked at his watch. “It’s half-past nine,” he said to the Professor. “If you really must take the night train, we ought to be starting.” “I’ll ring,” said Evanston, “and have somebody order your trap.” “Thank you,” said Whitehouse, “I would rather order it myself; I want to speak to my man. I know where the stable telephone is.” He went out. “I am sorry you have to go,” said Evanston to the Professor. “So am I,” the Professor replied. “This has been a most delightful evening.” Just then Whitehouse put his head in the door. “The stable telephone is out of order,” he said, “I’ll have to ask you to send some one, after all.” “The telephone’s all right,” replied Evanston; “the trouble is, you don’t know how to use it.” He rose, and joining Whitehouse, left the room. As he went out, the Professor started to rise, but something held him, and he sat back awkwardly. His sleeve-link had caught in the cord of the cushion on which his arm had been resting. He stooped to disentangle it, and turning the cushion over, his eyes rested on a curious pattern worked in gold. He gave a low exclamation of surprise, and carried the cushion into the lamplight. “Anything the matter?” inquired Mr. Carteret. To him the Professor was rather curious than human, but he felt that it was civil to show an interest in him. “There’s a verse,” replied the Professor, “embroidered in Persian characters on this cushion. It’s the work of a poet little known in Europe. It’s very extraordinary to find it here.” “Really,” said Mr. Carteret, suppressing a yawn. “I’ll make you a translation of it,” said the Professor. “I should be pleased,” said Mr. Carteret. There was a silence, during which the Professor wrote on a stray sheet of paper, and Mr. Carteret speculated on the chance of his horse Balloonist in the Broadway steeplechase. The Professor was handing the slip of paper to Mr. Carteret when Whitehouse and Evanston came hurriedly into the room. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hurry,” said Whitehouse. “We have very little time.” “All right,” said the Professor; “but I must say good-by to Mrs. Evanston.” He nodded a good-night to Mr. Carteret, and went out of the room, followed by Evanston and Whitehouse. Mr. Carteret heard the music stop in the drawing-room, and he knew that the Professor was taking his leave. He heard it begin again, and he knew that the guests had gone. “I must go myself,” he thought. “Evanston wants to talk with Whittlesea.”