She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. . ’ There was a chuckle in his voice. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. 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. ‘But she will not shoot you,’ Melusine told him flatly. "Come along, Mrs.
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