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

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

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

"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.'