He opened the door so softly that the little bell scarcely tinkled. But no one would have heard it had it rung loudly, for there was a confused murmur of fierce voices coming from the little room Madame usually occupied.
John Dough skipped behind the counter, where he could see into the room without being seen himself.
Around the little table stood the Arab, Monsieur Jules, and Madame, and they were all staring angrily into each other's faces.
"But the flask!" cried Ali Dubh. "Where is my precious flask?"
"It is here," said Madame, reaching behind the mirror and drawing forth something that glittered in the lamplight.
"But this is the silver flask—the cure for rheumatism," exclaimed the Arab. "Where my Golden Flask—containing the priceless Elixir of Life?"
"I must have made a mistake," said Madame, honestly; "for my eyes are so queer that I cannot tell gold from silver. Anyway, the contents of the other flask I emptied into a bowl of water, and rubbed my limbs with it."
The Arab shouted a despairing cry in his native tongue and then glared wildly at the woman.