"Don't say so! now don't," said the financier, "The money's here! Here!" and he again slapped his breast pocket.
"It's no use," said Sir Tancred. "I might smuggle you out of the hotel; but there isn't any sort of vessel, steamer, steam yacht, or launch to take you across."
"Let's go to Dover in my car!"
"What's the use? The detectives would follow in theirs."
The financier groaned, and some large tears ran down his face. He bent his head to hide them; and for all that he was not pleasant to look upon, Tinker felt sorry for him.
"Cheer up, man," said Sir Tancred. "You can always begin again!"
But the financier would not be heartened. He made a wretched dinner; after it he followed Sir Tancred into the billiard room, and steadily drinking brandies and sodas, watched him play pool. At eleven he went to bed. Tinker had gone to bed long before, but his door was just open, and he saw the financier go into his room. Five minutes later he stole across the corridor, and, without knocking, opened the door and went in. The financier was sitting at a table, gazing through a mist of tears at a nice, new nickel-plated revolver. He had no real intention of blowing his brains out, but with the childlike, emotional spirit of his race, he had persuaded himself that he had, and was luxuriating in his woe.
"What do you want?" he moaned.
"I've come to show you a way of getting to Paris," said Tinker, closing the door softly.
"Mein Gott!" cried the millionaire, relapsing into his vernacular in his excitement. "How? How?"