With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here.
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