The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) 📖

answered Aunt Hester from behind the Times; “he had it in his pocket, but he wouldn’t show it us.”

Aunt Juley was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked, the Times crackled, the fire sent forth its rustling purr. Aunt Juley dropped another stitch.

“Hester,” she said, “I have had such a dreadful thought.”

“Then don’t tell me,” said Aunt Hester quickly.

“Oh! but I must. You can’t think how dreadful!” Her voice sank to a whisper:

“Jolyon⁠—Jolyon, they say, has a⁠—has a fair beard, now.”

XII Progress of the Chase

Two days after the dinner at James’, Mr. Polteed provided Soames with food for thought.

“A gentleman,” he said, consulting the key concealed in his left hand, “47 as we say, has been paying marked attention to 17 during the last month in Paris. But at present there seems to have been nothing very conclusive. The meetings have all been in public places, without concealment⁠—restaurants, the Opera, the Comique, the Louvre, Luxembourg Gardens, lounge of the hotel, and so forth. She has not yet been traced to his rooms, nor vice versa. They went to Fontainebleau⁠—but nothing of value. In short, the situation is promising, but requires patience.” And, looking up suddenly, he added:

“One rather curious point⁠—47 has the same name as⁠—er⁠—31!”

“The fellow knows I’m her husband,” thought Soames.

“Christian name⁠—an odd one⁠—Jolyon,” continued Mr. Polteed. “We know his address in Paris and his residence here. We don’t wish, of course, to be running a wrong hare.”

“Go on with it, but be careful,” said Soames doggedly.

Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his secret made him all the more reticent.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Polteed, “I’ll just see if there’s anything fresh in.”

He returned with some letters. Relocking the door, he glanced at the envelopes.

“Yes, here’s a personal one from 19 to myself.”

“Well?” said Soames.

“Um!” said Mr. Polteed, “she says: ‘47 left for England today. Address on his baggage: Robin Hill. Parted from 17 in Louvre Gallery at 3:30; nothing very striking. Thought it best to stay and continue observation of 17. You will deal with 47 in England if you think desirable, no doubt.’ ” And Mr. Polteed lifted an unprofessional glance on Soames, as though he might be storing material for a book on human nature after he had gone out of business. “Very intelligent woman, 19, and a wonderful makeup. Not cheap, but earns her money well. There’s no suspicion of being shadowed so far. But after a time, as you know, sensitive people are liable to get the feeling of it, without anything definite to go on. I should rather advise letting-up on 17, and keeping an eye on 47. We can’t get at correspondence without great risk. I hardly advise that at this stage. But you can tell your client that it’s looking up very well.” And again his narrowed eyes gleamed at his taciturn customer.

“No,” said Soames suddenly, “I prefer that you should keep the watch going discreetly in Paris, and not concern yourself with this end.”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Polteed, “we can do it.”

“What⁠—what is the manner between them?”

“I’ll read you what she says,” said Mr. Polteed, unlocking a bureau drawer and taking out a file of papers; “she sums it up somewhere confidentially. Yes, here it is! ‘17 very attractive⁠—conclude 47, longer in the tooth’ (slang for age, you know)⁠—‘distinctly gone⁠—waiting his time⁠—17 perhaps holding off for terms, impossible to say without knowing more. But inclined to think on the whole⁠—doesn’t know her mind⁠—likely to act on impulse some day. Both have style.’ ”

“What does that mean?” said Soames between close lips.

“Well,” murmured Mr. Polteed with a smile, showing many white teeth, “an expression we use. In other words, it’s not likely to be a weekend business⁠—they’ll come together seriously or not at all.”

“H’m!” muttered Soames, “that’s all, is it?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Polteed, “but quite promising.”

“Spider!” thought Soames. “Good day!”

He walked into the Green Park that he might cross to Victoria Station and take the Underground into the City. For so late in January it was warm; sunlight, through the haze, sparkled on the frosty grass⁠—an illumined cobweb of a day.

Little spiders⁠—and great spiders! And the greatest spinner of all, his own tenacity, forever wrapping its cocoon of threads round any clear way out. What was that fellow hanging round Irene for? Was it really as Polteed suggested? Or was Jolyon but taking compassion on her loneliness, as he would call it⁠—sentimental radical chap that he had always been? If it were, indeed, as Polteed hinted! Soames stood still. It could not be! The fellow was seven years older than himself, no better looking! No richer! What attraction had he?

“Besides, he’s come back,” he thought; “that doesn’t look⁠—I’ll go and see him!” and, taking out a card, he wrote:

“If you can spare half an hour some afternoon this week, I shall be at the Connoisseurs any day between 5:30 and 6, or I could come to the Hotch Potch if you prefer it. I want to see you.⁠—S. F.”

He walked up St. James’s Street and confided it to the porter at the Hotch Potch.

“Give Mr. Jolyon Forsyte this as soon as he comes in,” he said, and took one of the new motor cabs into the City.⁠ ⁠…

Jolyon received that card the same afternoon, and turned his face towards the Connoisseurs. What did Soames want now? Had he got wind of Paris? And stepping across St. James’s Street, he determined to make no secret of his visit. “But it won’t do,” he thought, “to let him know she’s there, unless he knows already.” In this complicated state of mind he was conducted to where Soames was drinking tea in a small bay-window.

“No tea, thanks,” said Jolyon, “but I’ll go on smoking if I may.”

The curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were lighted; the two cousins sat waiting on each other.

“You’ve been in Paris, I hear,” said Soames at last.

“Yes; just back.”

“Young Val told me; he and your boy are going off, then?” Jolyon nodded.

“You didn’t happen to see Irene, I suppose. It appears she’s abroad