He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. Horrible doubts assailed her. They had completed a circuit of the mansion before Roding’s frustration burst out.
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