[_Returning at the same moment from lower arch on right._] I've had a hunt--but I've found it. [_He offers a metal cap to the PROFESSOR._] Now, if you'll only examine _this_, Professor. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. What do you mean by offering me that piece of dirty old metal, sir? Take the thing away! HORACE. It's the cap or stopper that belongs to that brass bottle. And, I don't know, but I rather fancy there's something engraved on it. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. Eh, what? [_He takes the cap._] So far as I can tell by feeling it, there _does_ seem to be--but what if there is--what if there _is_? HORACE. Well, it _might_ refer to a Jinnee having been bottled up by Solomon, don't you know. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. Bah!--but no matter. [_He slips the cap into his tail-coat pocket._] Whatever it is, I _will_ examine this inscription--after breakfast to-morrow morning. [_Triumphantly._] And I shall _decipher_ it, sir,--you may depend upon that! [_To PRINGLE, who returns with coat and helps him into it._] Thank you, my boy, thank you. Now, Sophia,--if you are ready! MRS. FUTVOYE. I am only waiting for _you_, Anthony. [_Frostily, to HORACE._] Mr. Ventimore, I will wish you good-night. [_She goes out by central arch._ PRINGLE. [_Approaching SYLVIA._] Good-night, Ventimore. Miss Sylvia--[_offering his arm_]--I am to have the privilege of taking care of you. SYLVIA. [_Declining his arm._] Thank you, Mr. Pringle,--but I can quite well take care of myself. [_She turns to HORACE._] Horace, I want to say just this before I go--I _will_ trust you still,--in spite of everything and everybody! HORACE. [_Putting his arm round her._] You little _brick_! And you won't have to go on trusting me _much_ longer! PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Interposing and separating them._] That she will not, sir! Let her go! [_HORACE releases SYLVIA, who goes up towards central arch, HORACE attempting to follow her, when he is stopped by the PROFESSOR._] Stay where you are! [_SYLVIA and PRINGLE pass through to the outer hall._ HORACE. Surely I may go as far as the door with her! PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_By the central arch._] Not another step, sir! One last word. This precious seal of yours will enable me to expose you as a shameless liar. That is all I have to say. _Good_ evening. [_He goes out. Pause, the front door is heard to slam._ HORACE. [_To himself, in despair._] Gone! She's gone! [_He flings himself down on the divan on the left, with his face to the audience._] The Professor may be right--the seal _mayn't_ be Solomon's! How do _I_ know old Fakrash hasn't been lying? And if he has--well, I'm done for! [_FAKRASH suddenly appears through the hangings, comes down to the divan, and touches HORACE on the shoulder; HORACE starts, then swings round to a sitting posture, facing FAKRASH._] Eh? So you _have_ come back! FAKRASH.