Lorna was explaining eagerly: "I had Stobell fix it, Bram. I knew you'd be tired when you got home, and superintendents are used to fixing lights. Don't you think it's cute?"
"Certainly is. Marvelous."
Lorna was standing right under the lamp, pointing up.
Bram caught his breath, shut his eyes, looked again, and then: "Lorna—" he spoke quietly — "come over here, honey. I want to find out if you see what I've seen."
"What?" Lorna was anxious. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing to worry about. Just come over here, and let me stand under the light." He crossed and stood under the lamp, facing'Loma. "Do you notice anything?"
"Oh!" Lorna's hands stole up to her face in a helpless sort of gesture. "Bram — you look simply terrible! Pale green, and — well, I can almost see your bones! Come away. You frighten me."
Bram came over and gave her what she called his "trust-me grin." He put his arms round her. "You frightened me when you stood there. Don't let it bother you."
"But it does, Bram. It's uncanny."
"It's just some sort of effect produced by all the coloured glass being reflected directly downward. What we want to do is cover the holes at the bottom. Maybe you could think something up that would do it."
After dinner had been cleared away, Bram settled himself at the desk in the comer with some work he had brought home from the office. Loma was painting tiny coloured designs on cellulose tape, which she intended to cut out with nail scissors and fix over the perforations at the base of the lamp.
The doorbell rang. Bram crossed the rainbow lobby, opened the blue door. A tall man stood there, his heavy features oddly lighted by the rays of the lamp. He wore a tan coat and a black Homburg hat. His eyes, which were dark also, looked past Bram. Their gaze was fixed on the lamp. He lowered them and bowed stiffly.
"Mr Bramwell Barton?"
"That's my name."
"Pardon me if I disturb you." He spoke with a marked accent. "My name is Ramoulian. I have called to make a proposition, Mr Barton, which I hope you will think it profitable to accept."
Mr Ramoulian removed his Homburg, uncovering glossy black hair. Loma was standing up when they came in.
"Mr Ramoulian has called on business, Loma," Bram explained, "This is my wife. Please sit down."
Mr Ramoulian repeated his stiff bow and sat down.
"You are a business man, Mr Barton — yes?"
"Not exactly." Bram dropped back into his chair. "I'm an editor in a publishing house."
"I see. And, perhaps, also an author?"
"In a modest way."
"Good. You have the artistic conscience. You will understand — and sympathise. I am here tonight, Mr Barton, and madame, on the instruction of the Sherif of Mecca."
"The Sherif of Meccal"
"But exactly. Let me try to explain. Some months ago, while the holy places were crowded with pilgrims, a great sacrilege was committed in the tomb of the Prophet at Ab-Madinen. One of the lamps which for generations had lighted the tomb was stolen—"
Loma started to speak, but Mr Ramoulian raised his hand, a quiet, but impressive command. "Apart from its history, the lamp was not of sufficient value to justify so great a risk. It was reported to be in Mecca. By one hour the custodians were too late to recover it. Again, it vanished. Then I was assigned to trace the lamp."
"Do I understand you're a detective?" Bram wanted to know.
"I am an antiquarian expert. I could identify the lamp of the Prophet among 1,000 other lamps. One of my agents traced it to Cairo. It was in the possession of an American tourist, who refused to part with it. I followed her here. She had died before I arrived. All her property had been sold at auction. I interviewed the auctioneers today. The lamp, with a number of other articles, had been bought in one lot, cheaply, by a small dealer on Third Avenue—"
"Mr Lincke!" Loma spoke the name on a high key.
"But exactly. Late this evening I called on Mr Lincke. And again I was too late. Once more, the lamp had been sold. But, fortunately, he knew the name and address of the purchaser. You were the purchaser, Mrs Barton, and there" — he turned, pointed — "hangs the lamp of the Prophet!"
Stupefied silence fell like a curtain on those last words. It was Bram who broke the spell.
"I suppose you want us to re-sell the lamp?"
"But exactly." The dark eyes became focused on him. "Mrs Barton paid $20 for it. I offer you $100."
Bram said: "I'm afraid I can't accept your offer. The recovery of a thing so highly valued that you're sent half around the world to trace it is worth more than $100. If you'd started the bidding at $1,000, we might have talked business."
Mr Ramoulian sighed. "And I thought I was dealing with an artist."
Bram laughed. Mr Ramoulian took out a cheque book and a pen.
"Very well. A thousand dollars, you say?"
"I said I'd consider a bid of $1,000, Mr Ramoulian. I need time to think this thing out."
"As you wish."
Mr Ramoulian replaced pen and cheque book and stood up. He bowed to Lorna, bowed to Bram, and took up his black hat. "I shall leave you, Mr Barton, and your charming wife to discuss this matter. I shall return."
Bram closed the door. Lorna heard heavy footsteps mounting to the street.
"Bram!" She ran to him as he turned. "Why ever did you let him go? A thousand dollars! Oh, Bram!"
Bram's long repressed excitement burst. He grasped Lorna, held her so tightly that she winced.
"Don't you see, honey — don't you see? Whether the tale about the Prophet's tomb is the truth or not, this lamp is a treasure of some sort. I want another opinion—"
"But we don't know Ramoulian's address!"
"Don't worry. He'll be back. I'm going to call Jim Crowley. He's one of the Spink and Barrett's experts, and he lives only a few blocks away. He'll come when I ask him."
Jim Crowley came, but he was in a furious hurry. He mounted a chair and inspected the lamp.
"Have you a flashlight, Bram?"
"Yes, I'll get it."
"Then switch this thing off."
"Right."
The rainbow lobby became plunged in shadow. Using the flashlight handed him by Bram, Jim examined the lamp minutely.
"What did you pay for it?"
"Twenty dollars," Bram told him.
"You were scalped! Except for the bits of glass, which are good, it's worth not a cent more than five bucks. The glass might fetch another five. So say ten. We wouldn't touch it at Spink and Barrett's. Imitation Arab stuff, mass-produced in Europe. Sorry."
Jim dashed off.
"So much for the experts!" Bram laughed when the door closed.
Lorna said: "Mr Lincke's been in the business a long time. He didn't think it was worth much. We have only Mr Ramoulian's word that it's old. There's something very strange about all this. I'm beginning to hope Mr Ramoulian doesn't come back!"
"I'm beginning to wish I hadn't let him go! But Jim just has to be wrong. A sane man doesn't offer $1,000 for a brass lamp worth $10."
"But he's a strange-looking man, Bram. He may not be sane."
Bram shook his head. "It could be the original Aladdin's Lamp!"
"It couldn't." Loma sat down. "I should know. I spent an hour this morning polishing it — and no genie appeared! Nothing happened, except to my fingernails."
"I have a hunch he'll come back." * * *
Two hours later he came. He bowed and walked across the alcove with that noiseless, dignified step which vaguely alarmed Lorna. He glanced back to where Bram was reclos-ing the blue door. "You have extinguished the lamp, I see."
"Just while I gave it a careful check-up," Bram explained, Joining them.
"That was prudent. But tell me — you have decided?"
Bram sat down facing him. "I have decided, Mr Ramoulian, that if you'll raise your bid to $2,000 the lamp is yours."