I notice these things, you know." He spoke indulgently.
It never occurred to the financier to doubt him; he was already a
little under the influence of the cooler head. He walked up and down a
little longer; and Tinker said no more. He had been taught to leave
people to themselves when he saw them beginning to come to his way of
thinking.
At last, with a horrible grimace which showed the depth of his agony,
the financier cried, "I'll come! I'll come! I'll trust my life--oh,
my precious life--to you. After all, you rescued the Kernaby child;
and you had to fight to do it! I'll risk it! Oh, my money! My money!"
"Very good," said Tinker. "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_.
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