Chapter II: In the Web

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 more at present, but I
think you understand.”

Madame’s eyes, so open that the whites showed above them, looked
at him very straight.

“_Ah! ça—mais nous avons le temps!_” was all she said. “Another
little cup?” Soames refused, and, taking his leave, walked
westward.

He had got that off his mind; she would not let Annette commit
herself with that cheerful young ass until...! But what chance of
his ever being able to say: “I’m free?” What chance? The future
had lost all semblance of reality. He felt like a fly, entangled
in cobweb filaments, watching the desirable freedom of the air
with pitiful eyes.

He was short of exercise, and wandered on to Kensington Gardens,
and down Queen’s Gate towards Chelsea. Perhaps she had gone back
to her flat. That at all events he could find out. For since that
last and most ignominious repulse his wounded self-respect had
taken refuge again in the feeling that she must have a lover. He
arrived before the little Mansions at the dinner-hour. No need to
enquire! A grey-haired lady was watering the flower-boxes in her
window. It was evidently let. And he walked slowly past again,
along the river—an evening of clear, quiet beauty, all harmony
and comfort, except within his heart.