Horace determined to make one last appeal to Fakrash's sense of gratitude, since it had always seemed the dominant trait in his character.
"Well," he said, "but for me, wouldn't you be still in that brass bottle?"
"That," replied the Jinnee, "is the very reason why I purpose to destroy thee!"
"Oh!" was all Horace could find to say at this most unlooked-for answer. His sheet anchor, in which he had trusted implicitly, had suddenly dragged—and he was drifting fast to destruction.
"Are there any other questions which thou wouldst ask?" inquired the Jinnee, with grim indulgence; "or wilt thou encounter thy doom without further procrastination?"
Horace was determined not to give in just yet; he had a very bad hand, but he might as well play the game out and trust to luck to gain a stray trick.
"I haven't nearly done yet," he said. "And, remember, you've promised to answer me—in the name of the Lord Mayor!"
"I will answer one other question, and no more," said the Jinnee, in an inflexible tone; and Ventimore realised that his fate would depend upon what he said next.