In this hot weather the window of Mr. Polteed's room was positively
open, and the only precaution was a wire gauze, preventing the intrusion
of flies. Two or three had tried to come in, and been caught, so that
they seemed to be clinging there with the intention of being devoured
presently. Mr. Polteed, following the direction of his client's eye,
rose apologetically and closed the window.
'Posing ass!' thought Soames. Like all who fundamentally believe in
themselves he was rising to the occasion, and, with his little sideway
smile, he said: "I've had your letter. I'm going to act. I suppose
you know who the lady you've been watching really is?" Mr. Polteed's
expression at that moment was a masterpiece. It so clearly said: 'Well,
what do you think? But mere professional knowledge, I assure you--pray
forgive it!' He made a little half airy movement with his hand, as who
should say: 'Such things--such things will happen to us all!'
"Very well, then," said Soames, moistening his lips: "there's no need to
say more. I'm instructing Linkman and Laver of Budge Row to act for me.
I don't want to hear your evidence, but kindly make your report to them
at five o'clock, and continue to observe the utmost secrecy."
Mr. Polteed half closed his eyes, as if to comply at once. "My dear
sir," he said.
"Are you convinced," asked Soames with sudden energy, "that there is
enough?"
The faintest movement occurred to Mr. Polteed's shoulders.
"You can risk it," he murmured; "with what we have, and human nature,
you can risk it."
Soames rose. "You will ask for Mr. Linkman. Thanks; don't get up." He
could not bear Mr. Polteed to slide as usual between him and the door.
In the sunlight of Piccadilly he wiped his forehead. This had been the
worst of it--he could stand the strangers better. And he went back into
the City to do what still lay before him.
That evening in Park Lane, watching his father dine, he was overwhelmed
by his old longing for a son--a son, to watch him eat as he went down
the years, to be taken on his knee as James on a time had been wont to
take him; a son of his own begetting, who could understand him because
he was the same flesh and blood--understand, and comfort him, and become
more rich and cultured than himself because he would start even
better off. To get old--like that thin, grey wiry-frail figure sitting
there--and be quite alone with possessions heaping up around him; to
take no interest in anything because it had no future and must pass away
from him to hands and mouths and eyes for whom he cared no jot! No! He
would force it through now, and be free to marry, and have a son to care
for him before he grew to be like the old old man his father, wistfully
watching now his sweetbread, now his son.