” Her words were slurred with sleep. Ever hear of the djinn in the bottle? Like enough. He put an arm around her. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. Stanley allowed his paper to drop a little, and scrutinized the hats and brows of their three fellow-travellers. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. You really ought not to stay here and talk to us. Wild here presently.
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