"So much the better," said Horace. "I'm as certain as I can be that, whatever is written on that lid--whether it's Phoenician, or Cuneiform, or anything else--must have some reference to a Jinnee confined in the bottle, or at least bear the seal of Solomon. But there the thing is--examine it for yourself." "Not now," said the Professor; "it's too late, and the light here is not strong enough. But I'll tell you what I will do. I'll take this stopper thing home with me, and examine it carefully to-morrow--on one condition." "You have only to name it," said Horace. "My condition is, that if I, and one or two other Orientalists to whom I may submit it, come to the conclusion that there is no real inscription at all--or, if any, that a date and meaning must be assigned to it totally inconsistent with your story--you will accept our finding and acknowledge that you have been under a delusion, and dismiss the whole affair from your mind." "Oh, I don't mind agreeing to _that_," said Horace, "particularly as it's my only chance." "Very well, then," said the Professor, as he removed the metal cap and put it in his pocket; "you may depend upon hearing from me in a day or two. Meantime, my boy," he continued, almost affectionately, "why not try a short bicycle tour somewhere, hey? You're a cyclist, I know--anything but allow yourself to dwell on Oriental subjects." "It's not so easy to avoid dwelling on them as you think!" said Horace, with rather a dreary laugh. "And I fancy, Professor, that--whether you like it or not--you'll have to believe in that Jinnee of mine sooner or later." "I can scarcely conceive," replied the Professor, who was by this time at the outer door, "any degree of evidence which could succeed in convincing me that your brass bottle had ever contained an Arabian Jinnee. However, I shall endeavour to preserve an open mind on the subject. Good evening to you." As soon as he was alone, Horace paced up and down his deserted halls in a state of simmering rage as he thought how eagerly he had looked forward to his little dinner-party; how intimate and delightful it might have been, and what a monstrous and prolonged nightmare it had actually proved. And at the end of it there he was--in a fantastic, impossible dwelling, deserted by every one, his chances of setting himself right with Sylvia hanging on the slenderest thread; unknown difficulties and complications threatening him from every side!