Then he turned to Miriam, but he did not meet her glance.

Last of all he shook hands with Barebone.
"Sleep on it," he said.

"Nothing like sleeping on a question.

I am staying at 'The Black Sailor.' See you to-morrow." He had come, had transacted his business and gone, all in less than an hour, with an extraordinary leisureliness almost amounting to indolence.
He had lounged into the house, and now he departed without haste or explanation.

Never hurry, never explain, was the text upon which John Turner seemed to base the sleepy discourse of his life.