"Souls," she answered, drily. Think of those days in Paris. The chain, which had been partially cut through, snapped near the staple. 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. Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. She had not at first the power for concealment. “Please hurry.
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