It was just upon the stroke of nine as he entered the Lodge, and Mr. Ever hear of the djinn in the bottle? Like enough. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon.
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