They were now nearing St. Paul's Cathedral, and Horace's first suspicion returned with double force.
"Mr. Fakrash, answer me," he said. "Is this my wedding day or not? If it is, it's time I was told!"
"Not yet," said the Jinnee, enigmatically, and indeed it proved to be another false alarm, for they turned down Cannon Street and towards the Mansion House.
"Perhaps you can tell me why we're going through Victoria Street, and what all this crowd has come out for?" asked Ventimore. For the throng was denser than ever; the people surged and swayed in serried ranks behind the City police, and gazed with a wonder and awe that for once seemed to have entirely silenced the Cockney instinct of persiflage.
"For what else but to do thee honour?" answered Fakrash.
"What bosh!" said Horace. "They mistake me for the Shah or somebody—and no wonder, in this get-up."
"Not so," said the Jinnee. "Thy names are familiar to them."
Horace glanced up at the hastily improvised decorations; on one large strip of bunting which spanned the street he read: "Welcome to the City's most distinguished guest!" "They can't mean me," he thought; and then another legend caught his eye: "Well done, Ventimore!" And an enthusiastic householder next door had burst into poetry and displayed the couplet—
"Would we had twenty more
Like Horace Ventimore!"