I made no reply.  I was wondering what The Author would have said had he seen us at that moment—­The Jinnee shuffling ahead in heelless slippers and Oriental dress, upon his woolly head a red fez with a silver crescent on it, and on his breast a string of saphies, verses from the Koran, in exquisite Arabic script, framed in flat round pieces of silver and strung on a chain.  Boris, larger and nobler even than most of his breed, paced behind him.  Then came I, a slim blonde woman, with fair hair powdered, in a dress a century old.

The passage wasn’t quite six feet high, and so still that you could hear the beating of your heart.  Achmet’s slippers went scuf-scuf-scuf.  Boris swayed from side to side, his tongue lolling, his eyes phosphorescent.  He resembled those ghost-hounds of old stories, terrific beasts that follow the Wild Huntsman.

We went down some steps.  I shouldn’t have been surprised had I found myself climbing the beanstalk after Jack.  Dazedly I thought:  “I’ll wake up in the morning and tell them at the breakfast-table what a wonderful dream I had.”  I could fancy the Lady with the Soul clasping her hands, and The Author crinkling his eyes, and Alicia laughing.

This last passage, which, I learned afterward, ran under the carriage house, presently crooked like an elbow and led us into a windowless and stone-floored little room, under the cellar.  On the opposite side of the room was the opening of another such passage, with stone steps leading to it.  On these steps sat Nicholas Jelnik.

He got to his feet and stood looking at me.  A momentary red rushed to his cheek, and his eyes flashed.  Boris, tongue out, tail wagging, rubbed against him, and the master’s hand dropped between the speaking eyes with a swift caress.

“Good dog!  You came with her!”

“And I. Am I not also a good dog?” asked The Jinnee, jealously.

Mr. Jelnik’s reply I did not understand, but Achmet made a respectful salutation, and his grin was the grin of a little boy.

“Sophy!” said Nicholas Jelnik, and his voice shook, “Sophy!  Oh, I knew you would come!” He gave a low, pleased laugh.  “And now she is here, she doesn’t even ask why I have sent for her!”

“The mistress,” said Achmet, “should have been of the Faith.  May Allah enlighten her!”

“Sit down here beside me for a few minutes, Sophy, and rest,” said Mr. Jelnik, seating himself.  “And do not look so pale, my little comrade.”

“I thought—­that you might be ill,” I faltered.  “I thought—­that you needed me.”

“I am not ill, but I do need you,” he said quickly, and took my hand in a firm clasp.  The touch of that hand brought me out of my trance-like state.  It was all right, and the most natural thing in the world, that I should be sitting in this windowless vault, with two candles and a shadowy lantern burning dimly in the still air, an old black Jinnee squatting on his heels watching me, a great wolf-hound stretched beside him.  Wasn’t Nicholas Jelnik holding my hand?