“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?”