THE PHANTOM THAT ROSE FROM THE BOTTLE The demon of the flute laughed and fell silent.

The house grew very quiet.

A fresh log built its ragged shell of color within the library and Carl drank again and again, watching the play of firelight upon the amber liquor in his glass.

It pleased him idly to build up a philosophy of whiskey, an impudent, fearless reverie of fact and fancy.
"So," he finished carelessly, "every bottle is a crystal temple to the great god Bacchus and who may know what phantom lurks within, ready to rise and grow from the fumes of its fragrant incense into a nebulous wraith of gigantic proportions.

Many a bottle such as this has made history and destroyed it.