” “Ready for the performance next Friday?” Martin asked. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Proof that the scoundrel had risen from the dead—for he was dead to his father! He glared at the female whose appearance in England had revived those painful memories—churning unbearably since Brewis Charvill had brought him the news and put him in the worst of tempers—and the fury spilled out. I have yet another. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. 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.
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