He made a hundred imitations of the signature, and found for the first time in his life that he was not bad at that sort of work.
Then he burnt the sheets of paper he had been using, put the cheque book away and looked at the clock; it pointed to eleven.
He switched out the lights and left the room, taking his way upstairs.
He felt sure of being able to find the bed-room he had left that morning, and coming along the softly lit corridor he had no difficulty in locating it. He had half dreaded that the agile valet in the sleeved jacket might be there waiting to tuck him up, but to his relief the room was vacant.
He shut the door, and going to the nearest window pulled the blind up for a moment.
The moon was rising over London, and casting her light upon the Green Park. A huge summer moon. The sort of moon that conjures up ideas about guitars and balconies.
Jones undressed, and putting on the silk pyjamas that were laid out for him, got into bed, leaving only the light burning by the bedside.
He tried to recall the details of that wonderful day, failed utterly, switched out the light, and went to sleep.