But Fakrash, though simple enough in some respects, was not quite such a fool as that. Sometimes the Jinn could be mollified and induced to grant a reprieve by being told stories, one inside the other, like a nest of Oriental boxes. Unfortunately Fakrash did not seem in the humour for listening to apologues, and, even if he were, Horace could not think of or improvise any just then. "Besides," he thought, "I can't sit up here telling him anecdotes for ever. I'd almost sooner die!" Still, he remembered that it was generally possible to draw an Arabian Efreet into discussion: they all loved argument, and had a rough conception of justice. "I think, Mr. Fakrash," he said, "that, in common fairness, I have a right to know what offence I have committed." "To recite thy misdeeds," replied the Jinnee, "would occupy much time." "I don't mind that," said Horace, affably. "I can give you as long as you like. I'm in no sort of a hurry." "With me it is otherwise," retorted Fakrash, making a stride towards him. "Therefore court not life, for thy death hath become unavoidable.' "Before we part," said Horace, "you won't refuse to answer one or two questions?" "Didst thou not undertake never to ask any further favour of me? Moreover, it will avail thee nought. For I am positively determined to slay thee." "I demand it," said Horace, "in the most great name of the Lord Mayor (on whom be peace!)" It was a desperate shot--but it took effect. The Jinnee quailed visibly. "Ask, then," he said; "but briefly, for the time groweth short." Horace determined to make one last appeal to Fakrash's sense of gratitude, since it had always seemed the dominant trait in his character. "Well," he said, "but for me, wouldn't you be still in that brass bottle?" "That," replied the Jinnee, "is the very reason why I purpose to destroy thee!" "Oh!" was all Horace could find to say at this most unlooked-for answer. His sheet anchor, in which he had trusted implicitly, had suddenly dragged--and he was drifting fast to destruction. "Are there any other questions which thou wouldst ask?" inquired the Jinnee, with grim indulgence; "or wilt thou encounter thy doom without further procrastination?" Horace was determined not to give in just yet; he had a very bad hand, but he might as well play the game out and trust to luck to gain a stray trick. "I haven't nearly done yet," he said. "And, remember, you've promised to answer me--in the name of the Lord Mayor!" "I will answer one other question, and no more," said the Jinnee, in an inflexible tone; and Ventimore realised that his fate would depend upon what he said next. CHAPTER XVIII A GAME OF BLUFF "Thy second question, O pertinacious one?" said the Jinnee, impatiently. He was standing with folded arms looking down on Horace, who was still seated on the narrow cornice, not daring to glance below again, lest he should lose his head altogether.