“Is Lady Lescelles in?” he asked the butler. . Kneebone invariably takes part with me, when any trifling misunderstanding arises between us. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible. “Dear husband,” she murmured. 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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