"Well, you promised you'd do that before, you know!" said Horace.
"For that matter," remarked Fakrash, "I have already fulfilled my promise."
"You have?" Horace exclaimed. "And does he believe now that it's all true about that bottle?"
"When I left him," answered the Jinnee, "all his doubts were removed."
"By Jove, you are a trump!" cried Horace, only too glad to be able to commend with sincerity. "And do you think, if I went to him now, I should find him the same as usual?"
"Nay," said Fakrash, with his weak and yet inscrutable smile, "that is more than I can promise thee."
"But why?" asked Horace, "if he knows all?"
There was the oddest expression in the Jinnee's furtive eyes: a kind of elfin mischief combined with a sense of wrong-doing, like a naughty child whose palate is still reminiscent of illicit jam. "Because," he replied, with a sound between a giggle and a chuckle, "because, in order to overcome his unbelief, it was necessary to transform him into a one-eyed mule of hideous appearance."
"What!" cried Horace. But, whether to avoid thanks or explanations, the Jinnee had disappeared with his customary abruptness.
"Fakrash!" shouted Horace, "Mr. Fakrash! Come back! Do you hear? I must speak to you!" There was no answer; the Jinnee might be well on his way to Lake Chad, or Jericho, by that time—he was certainly far enough from Great Cloister Street.