I went into the darkened smoking-room where the rays of morning light were beginning to creep through the shutters. There I breakfasted off a whisky-and-soda and some biscuits from the cupboard. By this time it was getting on for six o’clock. I put a pipe in my pocket and filled my pouch from the tobacco jar on the table by the fireplace.

As I poked into the tobacco my fingers touched something hard, and I drew out Scudder’s little black pocketbook⁠ ⁠…

That seemed to me a good omen. I lifted the cloth from the body and was amazed at the peace and dignity of the dead face. “Goodbye, old chap,” I said; “I am going to do my best for you. Wish me well, wherever you are.”

Then I hung about in the hall waiting for the milkman. That was the worst part of the business, for I was fairly choking to get out of doors. Six-thirty passed, then six-forty, but still he did not come. The fool had chosen this day of all days to be late.