“Hallucination, my dear Forsyte! I’ve known Elderson all my life. We were at Winchester together.”
Again! Again! Oh! Lord! Soames said slowly:
“You can’t tell from that. A man who was at Marlborough with me ran away with his mess fund and his colonel’s wife, and made a fortune in Chili out of canned tomatoes. The point is this: If the young man’s story’s true, we’re in the hands of a bad hat. It won’t do, Mont. Will you tackle him, and see what he says to it? You wouldn’t like a story of that sort about yourself. Shall we both go?”
“Yes,” said Sir Lawrence, suddenly. “You’re right. We’ll both go, Forsyte. I don’t like it, but we’ll both go. He ought to hear it.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
With solemnity they assumed top hats, and issued.
“I think, Forsyte, we’ll take a taxi.”
“Yes,” said Soames.
The cab ground its way slowly past the lions, then dashed on down to the Embankment. Side by side its occupants held their noses steadily before them.
“He was shooting with me a month ago,” said Sir Lawrence. “Do you know the hymn ‘O God, our help in ages past’? It’s very fine, Forsyte.”
Soames did not answer. The fellow was beginning to tittup!
“We had it that Sunday,” went on Sir Lawrence. “Elderson used to have a fine voice–sang solos. It’s a foghorn now, but a good delivery still.” He gave his little whinnying laugh.
‘Is it possible,’ thought Soames, ‘for this chap to be serious?’ and he said:
“If we find this is true of Elderson, and conceal it, we could all be put in the dock.”
Sir Lawrence refixed his monocle. “The deuce!” he said.
“Will you do the talking,” said Soames, “or shall I?”
“I think you had better, Forsyte; ought we to have the young man in?”
“Wait and see,” said Soames.
They ascended to the offices of the P. P. R. S. and entered the Board Room. There was no fire, the long table was ungarnished; an old clerk, creeping about like a fly on a pane, was filling inkstands out of a magnum.
Soames addressed him:
“Ask the manager to be so kind as to come and see Sir Lawrence Mont and Mr. Forsyte.”
The old clerk blinked, put down the magnum, and went out.
“Now,” said Soames in a low voice, “we must keep our heads. He’ll deny it, of course.”
“I should hope so, Forsyte; I should hope so. Elderson’s a gentleman.”
“No liar like a gentleman,” muttered Soames, below his breath.
After that they stood in their overcoats before the empty grate, staring at their top hats placed side by side on the table.
“One minute!” said Soames, suddenly, and crossing the room, he opened a door opposite. There, as the young clerk had said, was a sort of lobby between Board Room and Manager’s Room, with a door at the end into the main corridor. He stepped back, closed the door, and, rejoining Sir Lawrence, resumed his contemplation of the hats.
“Geography correct,” he said with gloom.
The entrance of the manager was marked by Sir Lawrence’s monocle dropping on to his coat-button with a tinkle. In cutaway black coat, clean-shaven, with grey eyes rather baggy underneath, a pink colour, every hair in place on a rather bald egg-shaped head, and lips alternately pouting, compressed, or smiling, the manager reminded Soames ridiculously of old Uncle Nicholas in his middle period. Uncle Nick was a clever fellow–“cleverest man in London,” some one had called him–but none had ever impugned his honesty. A pang of doubt and disinclination went through Soames. This seemed a monstrous thing to have to put to a man of his own age and breeding. But young Butterfield’s eyes–so honest and doglike! Invent a thing like that–was it possible? He said abruptly:
“Is that door shut?”
“Yes; do you feel a draught?” said the manager. “Would you like a fire?”
“No, thank you,” said Soames. “The fact is, Mr. Elderson, a young man in this office came to me yesterday with a very queer story. Mont and I think you should hear it.”
Accustomed to watching people’s eyes, Soames had the impression of a film (such as passes over the eyes of parrots) passing over the eyes of the manager. It was gone at once, if, indeed, it had ever been.
“By all means.”
Steadily, with that power he had over his nerves when it came to a point, and almost word for word, Soames repeated a story which he had committed to heart in the watches of the night. He concluded with:
“You’d like him in, no doubt. His name is Butterfield.”
During the recital Sir Lawrence had done nothing but scrutinise his finger nails; he now said:
“You had to be told, Elderson.”
“Naturally.”
The manager was crossing to the bell. The pink in his cheeks looked harder; his teeth showed, they had a pointed look.
“Ask Mr. Butterfield to come here.”
There followed a minute of elaborate inattention to each other. Then the young man came in, neat, commonplace, with his eyes on the manager’s face. Soames had a moment of compunction. This young fellow held his life in his hands, as it were–one of the great army who made their living out of self-suppression and respectability, with a hundred ready to step into his shoes at his first slip. What was that old tag of the provincial actor’s declamation–at which old Uncle Jolyon used to cackle so? “Like a pale martyr with his shirt on fire.”
“So, Mr. Butterfield, you have been good enough to exercise your imagination in my regard.”
“No, sir.”
“You stick to this fantastic story of eavesdropping?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have no further use for your services then. Good morning!”
The young man’s eyes, doglike, sought the face of Soames; a string twitched in his throat, his lips moved without a sound. He turned and went out.
“So much for that,” said the manager’s voice; “HE’LL never get another job.”
The venom in those words affected Soames like the smell of Russian fat. At the same moment he had the feeling: This wants thinking out. Only if innocent, or guilty and utterly resolved, would Elderson have been so drastic. Which was he?
The manager went on:
“I thank you for drawing my attention to the matter, gentlemen. I have had my eye on that young man for some time. A bad hat all round.”
Soames said glumly:
“What do you make out he had to gain?”
“Foresaw dismissal, and thought he would get in first.”
“I see,” said Soames. But he did not. His mind was back in his own office with Gradman rubbing his nose, shaking his grey head, and Butterfield’s: “No, sir, I’ve nothing against Mr. Elderson, and he’s nothing against me.”
‘I shall require to know more about that young man,’ he thought.
The manager’s voice again cut through.
“I’ve been thinking over what you said yesterday, Mr. Forsyte, about an action lying against the Board for negligence. There’s nothing in that; our policy has been fully disclosed to the shareholders at two general meetings, and has passed without comment. The shareholders are just as responsible as the Board.”
“H’m!” said Soames, and took up his hat. “Are you coming, Mont?”
As if summoned from a long distance, Sir Lawrence galvanitically refixed his monocle.
“It’s been very distasteful,” he said; “you must forgive us, Elderson. You had to be told. I don’t think that young man can be quite all there–he had a peculiar look; but we can’t have this sort of thing, of course. Good-bye, Elderson.”
Placing their hats on their heads simultaneously the two walked out. They walked some way without speaking. Then Sir Lawrence said:
“Butterfield? My brother-inlaw has a head gardener called Butterfield–quite a good fellow. Ought we to look into that young man, Forsyte?”
“Yes,” said Soames, “leave him to me.”
“I shall be very glad to. The fact is, when one has been at school with a man, one has a feeling, don’t you know.”
Soames gave vent to a sudden outburst.
“You can’t trust anyone nowadays, it seems to me,” he said. “It comes of–well, I don’t know what it comes of. But I’ve not done with this matter yet.”
Chapter IX.
SLEUTH
The Hotch-potch Club went back to the eighteen-sixties. Founded by a posse of young sparks, social and political, as a convenient place in which to smoulder, while qualifying for the hearths of ‘Snooks’, The Remove, The Wayfarers, Burton’s, Ostrich Feather, and other more permanent resorts, the Club had, chiefly owing to a remarkable chef in its early days, acquired a stability and distinction of its own. It still, however, retained a certain resemblance to its name, and this was its attraction to Michael–all sorts of people belonged. From Walter Nazing, and young semi-writers and patrons of the stage, who went to Venice, and talked of being amorous in gondolas, or of how so-and-so ought to be made love to; from such to bottle-brushed demi-generals, who had sat on courts-martial and shot men out of hand for the momentary weaknesses of human nature; from Wilfrid Desert (who never came there now) to Maurice Elderson, in the card-room, he could meet them all, and take the temperature of modernity. He was doing this in the Hotch-potch smoking-room, the late afternoon but one after Fleur had come into his bed, when he was informed:
“A Mr. Forsyte, sir, in the hall for you. Not the member we had here many years before he died; his cousin, I think.”
Conscious that his associates at the moment would not be his father-inlaw’s ‘dream,’ nor he theirs, Michael went out, and found Soames on the weighing machine.
“I don’t vary,” he said, looking up. “How’s Fleur?”
“Very well, thank you, sir.”
“I’m at Green Street. I stayed up about a young man. Have you any vacancy in your office for a clerk–used to figures. I want a job for him.”
“Come in here, sir,” said Michael, entering a small room.
Soames followed and looked round him.
“What do you call this?” he said.
“Well, we call it ‘the grave’; it’s nice and quiet. Will you have a sherry?”
“Sherry!” repeated Soames. “You young people think you’ve invented sherry; when I was a boy no one dreamed of dining without a glass of dry sherry with his soup, and a glass of fine old sherry with his sweet. Sherry!”
“I quite believe you, sir. There really is nothing new. Venice, for instance–wasn’t that the fashion, too; and knitting, and royalties? It’s all cyclic. Has your young man got the sack?”
Soames stared. “Yes,” he said, “he has. His name is Butterfield; he wants a job.”
“That’s frightfully rife; we get applications every day. I don’t want to be swanky, but ours is a rather specialised business. It has to do with books.”
“He strikes me as capable, orderly, and civil; I don’t see what more you want in a clerk. He writes a good hand, and, so far as I can see, he tells the truth.”
“That’s important, of course,” said Michael; “but is he a good liar as well? I mean, there’s more likely to be something in the travelling line; selling special editions, and that kind of thing. Could you open up about him a bit? Anything human is to the good–I don’t say old Danby would appreciate that, but he needn’t know.”
“H’m! Well–he–er–did his duty–quite against his interest–in fact, it’s ruination for him. He seems to be married and to have two children.”
“Ho, ho! Jolly! If I got him a place, would he–would he be doing his duty again, do you think?”
“I am serious,” said Soames; “the young man is on my mind.”
“Yes,” said Michael, ruminative, “the first thing in such a case is to get him on to some one else’s, sharp. Could I see him?”
“I told him to step round and see you to-night after dinner.
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