ard that dear Soames wants Irene to
come back to him again. Who was it told us that George had made a funny
drawing of him with the words, 'He won't be happy till he gets it'?"

"Eustace," answered Aunt Hester from behind The Times; "he had it in his
pocket, but he wouldn't show it us."

Aunt Juley was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked, The Times crackled,
the fire sent forth its rustling purr. Aunt Juley dropped another
stitch.

"Hester," she said, "I have had such a dreadful thought."

"Then don't tell me," said Aunt Hester quickly.

"Oh! but I must. You can't think how dreadful!" Her voice sank to a
whisper:

"Jolyon--Jolyon, they say, has a--has a fair beard, now."

CHAPTER XII

PROGRESS OF THE CHASE

Two days after the dinner at James', Mr. Polteed provided Soames with
food for thought.

"A gentleman," he said, consulting the key concealed in his left hand,
"47 as we say, has been paying marked attention to 17 during the last
month in Paris. But at present there seems to have been nothing very
conclusive. The meetings have all been in public places, without
concealment--restaurants, the Opera, the Comique, the Louvre, Luxembourg
Gardens, lounge of the hotel, and so forth. She has not yet been traced
to his rooms, nor vice versa. They went to Fontainebleau--but nothing of
value. In short, the situation is promising, but requires patience."
And, looking up suddenly, he added:

"One rather curious point--47 has the same name as--er--31!"

'The fellow knows I'm her husband,' thought Soames.

"Christian name--an odd one--Jolyon," continued Mr. Polteed. "We know
his address in Paris and his residence here. We don't wish, of course,
to be running a wrong hare."

"Go on with it, but be careful," said Soames doggedly.

Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his secret
made him all the more reticent.

"Excuse me," said Mr. Polteed, "I'll just see if there's anything fresh
in."

He returned with some letters. Relocking the door, he glanced at the
envelopes.

"Yes, here's a personal one from 19 to myself."

"Well?" said Soames.

"Um!" said Mr. Polteed, "she says: '47 left for England to-day.
Address on his baggage: Robin Hill. Parted from 17 in Louvre
Gallery at 3.30; nothing very striking. Thought it best to stay
and continue observation of 17. You will deal with 47 in England
if you think desirable, no doubt.'" And Mr. Polteed lifted an
unprofession