ssing the room,
stopped, for he seemed to hear sobbing.

It was nothing--only the sort of thing that had been bothering him in
the morning. And soon after, putting the high guard before the blazing
fire, he stole downstairs.

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