His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. 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. The other must call a coach as quickly as he can. Yet you knew that I was not dead. I have plenty in common with Mike.
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