Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. 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. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out.
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