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.
[Benevolently.] May thy head long survive!
Horace.
[Choking with rage.] If you'd only turned up four minutes earlier I could have introduced you to my guests. It's too late now!
Fakrash.