Part 16 (1/2)

Suddenly he came to himself with a start. ”I'll try it!” he cried. ”I can't and won't stand this!” And he rushed after them bareheaded.

”Professor!” he said breathlessly, as he caught him up, ”one moment. On second thoughts, I _will_ tell you my secret, if you will promise me a patient hearing.”

”The pavement is hardly the place for confidences,” replied the Professor, ”and, if it were, your costume is calculated to attract more remark than is desirable. My wife and daughter have gone on--if you will permit me, I will overtake them--I shall be at home to-morrow morning, should you wish to see me.”

”No--to-night, to-night!” urged Horace. ”I can't sleep in that infernal place with this on my mind. Put Mrs. Futvoye and Sylvia into a cab, Professor, and come back. It's not late, and I won't keep you long--but for Heaven's sake, let me tell you my story at once.”

Probably the Professor was not without some curiosity on the subject; at all events he yielded. ”Very well,” he said, ”go into the house and I will rejoin you presently. Only remember,” he added, ”that I shall accept no statement without the fullest proof. Otherwise you will merely be wasting your time and mine.”

”Proof!” thought Horace, gloomily, as he returned to his Arabian halls, ”The only decent proof I could produce would be old Fakrash, and he's not likely to turn up again--especially now I want him.”

A little later the Professor returned, having found a cab and despatched his women-folk home. ”Now, young man,” he said, as he unwound his wrapper and seated himself on the divan by Horace's side, ”I can give you just ten minutes to tell your story in, so let me beg you to make it as brief and as comprehensible as you can.”

It was not exactly an encouraging invitation in the circ.u.mstances, but Horace took his courage in both hands and told him everything, just as it had happened.

”And that's your story?” said the Professor, after listening to the narrative with the utmost attention, when Horace came to the end.

”That's my story, sir,” said Horace. ”And I hope it has altered your opinion of me.”

”It has,” replied the Professor, in an altered tone; ”it has indeed.

Yours is a sad case--a very sad case.”

”It's rather awkward, isn't it? But I don't mind so long as you understand. And you'll tell Sylvia--as much as you think proper?”

”Yes--yes; I must tell Sylvia.”

”And I may go on seeing her as usual?”

”Well--will you be guided by my advice--the advice of one who has lived more than double your years?”

”Certainly,” said Horace.

”Then, if I were you, I should go away at once, for a complete change of air and scene.”

”That's impossible, sir--you forget my work!”

”Never mind your work, my boy: leave it for a while, try a sea-voyage, go round the world, get quite away from these a.s.sociations.”

”But I might come across the Jinnee again,” objected Horace; ”_he's_ travelling, as I told you.”

”Yes, yes, to be sure. Still, I should go away. Consult any doctor, and he'll tell you the same thing.”

”Consult any---- Good G.o.d!” cried Horace; ”I see what it is--you think I'm mad!”

”No, no, my dear boy,” said the Professor, soothingly, ”not mad--nothing of the sort; perhaps your mental equilibrium is just a trifle--it's quite intelligible. You see, the sudden turn in your professional prospects, coupled with your engagement to Sylvia--I've known stronger minds than yours thrown off their balance--temporarily, of course, quite temporarily--by less than that.”

”You believe I am suffering from delusions?”