The House of Mammon by Fred M. White

At the sound of the stranger's voice, Sebag started. It was a sonorous voice, clear and yet truculent, the rolling of the r's suggested long contact with the stage. The man was tall and stout, dressed in sufficiently loud tweeds, the pattern of which only seemed to emphasise his amazing assurance. The boots had at one time been patent leather, now they were mere shells held together by shreds and patches.

The greasy hair hung down under the brim of a white bowler that was tipped to an extraordinary angle over the left ear. The fat, impudent, sultry face was clean-shaven, the bulging eyes were filled with tiny red veins. In short he was one of the type that Paul May loved to draw--the thoughtless broken-down comedian, blaming the whole world for his failure, excepting, always the one person most responsible for his misfortunes namely, himself.