A squatty guy with a wide-dark face came out of the door of the office building and waved and pointed.

"In Mr Yarde's picturesque but somewhat obscure language, he — er — tipped the cole to Adam Tiler. Have I that right?' 'How the d-devil should I know?' snapped Brandon. 'You must forgive me. You seem to me to be so familiar with — er — thieves and — er — swashbucklers, that I assumed that you were conversant also with thieving cant.'

The hairdresser's shop was warm and glittering. It smelled of soap and burnt paper and wallflower brilliantine.

He's as set in his ways now as a little old man.