al glance on Soames, as though he might be storing
material for a book on human nature after he had gone out of
business. "Very intelligent woman, 19, and a wonderful make-up.
Not cheap, but earns her money well. There's no suspicion of being
shadowed so far. But after a time, as you know, sensitive people
are liable to get the feeling of it, without anything definite to
go on. I should rather advise letting-up on 17, and keeping an eye
on 47. We can't get at correspondence without great risk. I
hardly advise that at this stage. But you can tell your client
that it's looking up very well." And again his narrowed eyes
gleamed at his taciturn customer.

"No," said Soames suddenly, "I prefer that you should keep the watch
going discreetly in Paris, and not concern yourself with this end."

"Very well," replied Mr. Polteed, "we can do it."

"What--what is the manner between them?"

"I'll read you what she says," said Mr. Polteed, unlocking a bureau
drawer and taking out a file of papers; "she sums it up somewhere
confidentially. Yes, here it is! '17 very attractive--conclude 47,
longer in the tooth' (slang for age, you know)--'distinctly gone--waiting
his time--17 perhaps holding off for terms, impossible to say without
knowing more. But inclined to think on the whole--doesn't know her
mind--likely to act on impulse some day. Both have style.'"

"What does that mean?" said Soames between close lips.

"Well," murmured Mr. Polteed with a smile, showing many white teeth, "an
expression we use. In other words, it's not likely to be a weekend
business--they'll come together seriously or not at all."

"H'm!" muttered Soames, "that's all, is it?"

"Yes," said Mr. Polteed, "but quite promising."

'Spider!' thought Soames. "Good-day!"

He walked into the Green Park that he might cross to Victoria Station and
take the Underground into the City. For so late in January it was warm;
sunlight, through the haze, sparkled on the frosty grass--an illumined
cobweb of a day.

Little spiders--and great spiders! And the greatest spinner of all, his
own tenacity, for ever wrapping its cocoon of threads round any clear way
out. What was that fellow hanging round Irene for? Was it really as
Polteed suggested? Or was Jolyon but taking compassion on her
loneliness, as he would call it--sentimental radical chap that he had
always been? If it were, indeed, as Polteed hinted! Soames stood still.
It could not be! The f