“ ‘Middle-aged, medium height, blue dittoes in afternoon, evening dress at night, pale, dark hair, small dark moustache, flat cheeks, good chin, grey eyes, small feet, guilty look.⁠ ⁠…’ ”

Soames rose and went to the window. He stood there in sardonic fury. Congenital idiot⁠—spidery congenital idiot! Seven months at fifteen pounds a week⁠—to be tracked down as his own wife’s lover! Guilty look! He threw the window open.

“It’s hot,” he said, and came back to his seat.

Crossing his knees, he bent a supercilious glance on Mr. Polteed.

“I doubt if that’s quite good enough,” he said, drawling the words, “with no name or address. I think you may let that lady have a rest, and take up our friend 47 at this end.” Whether Polteed had spotted him he could not tell; but he had a mental vision of him in the midst of his cronies dissolved in inextinguishable laughter. “Guilty look!” Damnation!