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."