"I'll come for you at half-past twelve.

Put on your warmest great-coat.

It'll be cold." And he slipped gently out of the room.
Five minutes later the distracted financier rang his bell, and ordered a bottle of 1820 liqueur brandy.

It was the best thing he could have done: a private detective, who was sitting on guard in a room lower down the corridor to see that he did not go downstairs again, believed him to have thrown up the sponge, and to be drowning his sorrow, and allowed himself to become immersed in the current number of the _Family Herald_.
As was his practice, Sir Tancred, on his way to bed, looked in on Tinker, and found him sleeping the profound sleep of youth and innocence.

But no sooner did he hear his father in bed and still, than he rose from that profound sleep of youth and innocence, dressed, even to his great-coat.