THE COMPLETE FORSYTE SAGA SERIES: The Forsyte Saga, A Modern Comedy, End of the Chapter & On Forsyte 'Change (A Prequel) - John Galsworthy

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idyll with that fellow Jolyon Forsyte is known to me at all events. If you pursue it, understand that I will leave no stone unturned to make things unbearable for him. 'S. F.'"

      He sealed this note but did not address it, refusing to write the maiden name which she had impudently resumed, or to put the word Forsyte on the envelope lest she should tear it up unread. Then he went out, and made his way through the glowing streets, abandoned to evening pleasure-seekers. Entering her hotel, he took his seat in a far corner of the dining-room whence he could see all entrances and exits. She was not there. He ate little, quickly, watchfully. She did not come. He lingered in the lounge over his coffee, drank two liqueurs of brandy. But still she did not come. He went over to the keyboard and examined the names. Number twelve, on the first floor! And he determined to take the note up himself. He mounted red-carpeted stairs, past a little salon; eight-ten-twelve! Should he knock, push the note under, or...? He looked furtively round and turned the handle. The door opened, but into a little space leading to another door; he knocked on that—no answer. The door was locked. It fitted very closely to the floor; the note would not go under. He thrust it back into his pocket, and stood a moment listening. He felt somehow certain that she was not there. And suddenly he came away, passing the little salon down the stairs. He stopped at the bureau and said:

      "Will you kindly see that Mrs. Heron has this note?"

      "Madame Heron left to-day, Monsieur—suddenly, about three o'clock. There was illness in her family."

      Soames compressed his lips. "Oh!" he said; "do you know her address?"

      "Non, Monsieur. England, I think."

      Soames put the note back into his pocket and went out. He hailed an open horse-cab which was passing.

      "Drive me anywhere!"

      The man, who, obviously, did not understand, smiled, and waved his whip. And Soames was borne along in that little yellow-wheeled Victoria all over star-shaped Paris, with here and there a pause, and the question, "C'est par ici, Monsieur?" "No, go on," till the man gave it up in despair, and the yellow-wheeled chariot continued to roll between the tall, flat-fronted shuttered houses and plane-tree avenues—a little Flying Dutchman of a cab.

      'Like my life,' thought Soames, 'without object, on and on!'

      CHAPTER II—IN THE WEB

       Table of Contents

       Soames returned to England the following day, and on the third morning received a visit from Mr. Polteed, who wore a flower and carried a brown billycock hat. Soames motioned him to a seat.

      "The news from the war is not so bad, is it?" said Mr. Polteed. "I hope I see you well, sir."

      "Thanks! quite."

      Mr. Polteed leaned forward, smiled, opened his hand, looked into it, and said softly:

      "I think we've done your business for you at last."

      "What?" ejaculated Soames.

      "Nineteen reports quite suddenly what I think we shall be justified in calling conclusive evidence," and Mr. Polteed paused.

      "Well?"

      "On the 10th instant, after witnessing an interview between 17 and a party, earlier in the day, 19 can swear to having seen him coming out of her bedroom in the hotel about ten o'clock in the evening. With a little care in the giving of the evidence that will be enough, especially as 17 has left Paris—no doubt with the party in question. In fact, they both slipped off, and we haven't got on to them again, yet; but we shall—we shall. She's worked hard under very difficult circumstances, and I'm glad she's brought it off at last." Mr. Polteed took out a cigarette, tapped its end against the table, looked at Soames, and put it back. The expression on his client's face was not encouraging.

      "Who is this new person?" said Soames abruptly.

      "That we don't know. She'll swear to the fact, and she's got his appearance pat."

      Mr. Polteed took out a letter, and began reading:

      "'Middle-aged, medium height, blue dittoes in afternoon, evening dress at night, pale, dark hair, small dark moustache, flat cheeks, good chin, grey eyes, small feet, guilty look....'"

      Soames rose and went to the window. He stood there in sardonic fury. Congenital idiot—spidery congenital idiot! Seven months at fifteen pounds a week—to be tracked down as his own wife's lover! Guilty look! He threw the window open.

      "It's hot," he said, and came back to his seat.

      Crossing his knees, he bent a supercilious glance on Mr. Polteed.

      "I doubt if that's quite good enough," he said, drawling the words, "with no name or address. I think you may let that lady have a rest, and take up our friend 47 at this end." Whether Polteed had spotted him he could not tell; but he had a mental vision of him in the midst of his cronies dissolved in inextinguishable laughter. 'Guilty look!' Damnation!

      Mr. Polteed said in a tone of urgency, almost of pathos: "I assure you we have put it through sometimes on less than that. It's Paris, you know. Attractive woman living alone. Why not risk it, sir? We might screw it up a peg."

      Soames had sudden insight. The fellow's professional zeal was stirred: 'Greatest triumph of my career; got a man his divorce through a visit to his own wife's bedroom! Something to talk of there, when I retire!' And for one wild moment he thought: 'Why not?' After all, hundreds of men of medium height had small feet and a guilty look!

      "I'm not authorised to take any risk!" he said shortly.

      Mr. Polteed looked up.

      "Pity," he said, "quite a pity! That other affair seemed very costive."

      Soames rose.

      "Never mind that. Please watch 47, and take care not to find a mare's nest. Good-morning!"

      Mr. Polteed's eye glinted at the words 'mare's nest!'

      "Very good. You shall be kept informed."

      And Soames was alone again. The spidery, dirty, ridiculous business! Laying his arms on the table, he leaned his forehead on them. Full ten minutes he rested thus, till a managing clerk roused him with the draft prospectus of a new issue of shares, very desirable, in Manifold and Topping's. That afternoon he left work early and made his way to the Restaurant Bretagne. Only Madame Lamotte was in. Would Monsieur have tea with her?

      Soames bowed.

      When they were seated at right angles to each other in the little room, he said abruptly:

      "I want a talk with you, Madame."

      The quick lift of her clear brown eyes told him that she had long expected such words.

      "I have to ask you something first: That young doctor—what's his name? Is there anything between him and Annette?"

      Her whole personality had become, as it were, like jet—clear-cut, black, hard, shining.

      "Annette is young," she said; "so is monsieur le docteur. Between young people things move quickly; but Annette is a good daughter. Ah! what a jewel of a nature!"

      The least little smile twisted Soames' lips.

      "Nothing definite, then?"

      "But definite—no, indeed! The young man is veree nice, but—what would you? There is no money at present."

      She raised her willow-patterned tea-cup; Soames did the same. Their eyes met.

      "I am a married man," he said, "living apart from my wife for many years. I am seeking to divorce her."

      Madame Lamotte put down her cup. Indeed! What tragic things there were! The entire absence of sentiment in her inspired a queer species of contempt in Soames.

      "I am a rich man," he added, fully conscious that the remark was not in good taste. "It is useless to say

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