But it could not be.
After dinner, disregarding the faint expostulations of the anxious-looking younger son, the millionaire rose to his feet and pronounced a glowing, fervid, but, save for the couplet, "The rank is but the guinea stamp The maan's the maan for a' that" unintelligible eulogy on the family of Beauleigh.
As he drove away with Tinker to the Hotel Cecil, Sir Tancred crinkled the millionaire's cheque in his waistcoat pocket, and said, "Four thousand pounds is a good day's work--two thousand for you--and two thousand for me.

We'll move to Brighton.

But I spent some of the most horrible hours of my life wondering if that beast had got into the same compartment with you.

None of the fools at the station could tell me." "I was afraid you'd be anxious, sir," said Tinker, patting his arm.
"But I think that Blazer and I could have dealt with him." Then he gave Blazer--who, distended by the fat of the land, was snoring heavily through happy dreams of the human calf, at the bottom of the cab--a gentle kick, and said with sad severity, "I shall never make a real bloodhound of Blazer.

Bloodhounds leap at a man's throat; they don't collar him by the leg.".