Andrew Slate, a very personable man in his spring clothes of grey tweed, took up his hat and prepared to depart.

Half-past twelve had just struck by Wingate's clock, and the two men had been together since ten.
"You're a wonderful person, Wingate," Slate said, with a note of genuine admiration in his tone.

"I don't believe there's another man breathing who would have had the courage to plan a coup like this." Wingate shrugged his shoulders.
"The men who dig deep into life," he replied, as he shook hands, "are the men who take risks.

I was never meant to be one of those who scratch about on the surface." A note was slipped into his letter box as he let Slate out.

He noticed the coronet on the envelope and opened it eagerly.