He slept over that project and his wounded pride—­or rather, kept vigil.  Only while shaving did he suddenly remember that she called herself by her maiden name of Heron.  Polteed would not know, at first at all events, whose wife she was, would not look at him obsequiously and leer behind his back.  She would just be the wife of one of his clients.  And that would be true—­for was he not his own solicitor?

He was literally afraid not to put his design into execution at the first possible moment, lest, after all, he might fail himself.  And making Warmson bring him an early cup of coffee; he stole out of the house before the hour of breakfast.  He walked rapidly to one of those small West End streets where Polteed’s and other firms ministered to the virtues of the wealthier classes.  Hitherto he had always had Polteed to see him in the Poultry; but he well knew their address, and reached it at the opening hour.  In the outer office, a room furnished so cosily that it might have been a money-lender’s, he was attended by a lady who might have been a schoolmistress.

“I wish to see Mr. Claud Polteed.  He knows me—­never mind my name.”

To keep everybody from knowing that he, Soames Forsyte, was reduced to having his wife spied on, was the overpowering consideration.

Mr. Claud Polteed—­so different from Mr. Lewis Polteed—­was one of those men with dark hair, slightly curved noses, and quick brown eyes, who might be taken for Jews but are really Phoenicians; he received Soames in a room hushed by thickness of carpet and curtains.  It was, in fact, confidentially furnished, without trace of document anywhere to be seen.

Greeting Soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door with a certain ostentation.

“If a client sends for me,” he was in the habit of saying, “he takes what precaution he likes.  If he comes here, we convince him that we have no leakages.  I may safely say we lead in security, if in nothing else....Now, sir, what can I do for you?”

Soames’ gorge had risen so that he could hardly speak.  It was absolutely necessary to hide from this man that he had any but professional interest in the matter; and, mechanically, his face assumed its sideway smile.

“I’ve come to you early like this because there’s not an hour to lose”—­if he lost an hour he might fail himself yet!  “Have you a really trustworthy woman free?”

Mr. Polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his eyes over it, and locked the drawer up again.

“Yes,” he said; “the very woman.”

Soames had seated himself and crossed his legs—­nothing but a faint flush, which might have been his normal complexion, betrayed him.

“Send her off at once, then, to watch a Mrs. Irene Heron of Flat C, Truro Mansions, Chelsea, till further notice.”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Polteed; “divorce, I presume?” and he blew into a speaking-tube.  “Mrs. Blanch in?  I shall want to speak to her in ten minutes.”