Syme alone had even a glimmering, and such as it was it froze him to the bone.

If the last words of the President meant anything, they meant that he had not after all passed unsuspected.
They meant that while Sunday could not denounce him like Gogol, he still could not trust him like the others.
The other four got to their feet grumbling more or less, and betook themselves elsewhere to find lunch, for it was already well past midday.
The Professor went last, very slowly and painfully.

Syme sat long after the rest had gone, revolving his strange position.

He had escaped a thunderbolt, but he was still under a cloud.

At last he rose and made his way out of the hotel into Leicester Square.