Fresh for the morrow! was his thought.  It was long before he went to sleep....

It is now to George Forsyte that the mind must turn for light on the events of that fog-engulfed afternoon.

The wittiest and most sportsmanlike of the Forsytes had passed the day reading a novel in the paternal mansion at Princes’ Gardens.  Since a recent crisis in his financial affairs he had been kept on parole by Roger, and compelled to reside ‘at home.’

Towards five o’clock he went out, and took train at South Kensington Station (for everyone to-day went Underground).  His intention was to dine, and pass the evening playing billiards at the Red Pottle—­that unique hostel, neither club, hotel, nor good gilt restaurant.

He got out at Charing Cross, choosing it in preference to his more usual St. James’s Park, that he might reach Jermyn Street by better lighted ways.

On the platform his eyes—­for in combination with a composed and fashionable appearance, George had sharp eyes, and was always on the look-out for fillips to his sardonic humour—­his eyes were attracted by a man, who, leaping from a first-class compartment, staggered rather than walked towards the exit.

‘So ho, my bird!’ said George to himself; ‘why, it’s “the Buccaneer!"’ and he put his big figure on the trail.  Nothing afforded him greater amusement than a drunken man.

Bosinney, who wore a slouch hat, stopped in front of him, spun around, and rushed back towards the carriage he had just left.  He was too late.  A porter caught him by the coat; the train was already moving on.

George’s practised glance caught sight of the face of a lady clad in a grey fur coat at the carriage window.  It was Mrs. Soames—­and George felt that this was interesting!

And now he followed Bosinney more closely than ever—­up the stairs, past the ticket collector into the street.  In that progress, however, his feelings underwent a change; no longer merely curious and amused, he felt sorry for the poor fellow he was shadowing.  ‘The Buccaneer’ was not drunk, but seemed to be acting under the stress of violent emotion; he was talking to himself, and all that George could catch were the words “Oh, God!” Nor did he appear to know what he was doing, or where going; but stared, hesitated, moved like a man out of his mind; and from being merely a joker in search of amusement, George felt that he must see the poor chap through.

He had ‘taken the knock’—­’taken the knock!’ And he wondered what on earth Mrs. Soames had been saying, what on earth she had been telling him in the railway carriage.  She had looked bad enough herself!  It made George sorry to think of her travelling on with her trouble all alone.

He followed close behind Bosinney’s elbow—­tall, burly figure, saying nothing, dodging warily—­and shadowed him out into the fog.

There was something here beyond a jest!  He kept his head admirably, in spite of some excitement, for in addition to compassion, the instincts of the chase were roused within him.