This occupied him until seven.

He then called a cab and drove to a small hotel in the suburbs, engaged a private room, and ordered up materials for the making of the particular punch that had been the last beverage he had got drunk on, six- and-twenty years ago.
For three hours he sat there drinking steadily, with his watch before him.

At half-past ten he rang the bell, paid his bill, came home, and cut his throat.
For a quarter of a century people had been calling that man a "reformed character." His character had not reformed one jot.

The craving for drink had never died.

For twenty-six years he had, being a great man, held it gripped by the throat.