“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.