Already in the afternoon he passed posters announcing the identity of the dead man, and bought the papers to see what they said. He would stop their mouths if he could, and he went into the City, and was closeted with Boulter for a long time.

On his way home, passing the steps of Jobson’s about half past four, he met George Forsyte, who held out an evening paper to Soames, saying:

“Here! Have you seen this about the poor Buccaneer?”

Soames answered stonily: “Yes.”

George stared at him. He had never liked Soames; he now held him responsible for Bosinney’s death. Soames had done for him⁠—done for him by that act of property that had sent the Buccaneer to run amok that fatal afternoon.

“The poor fellow,” he was thinking, “was so cracked with jealousy, so cracked for his vengeance, that he heard nothing of the omnibus in that infernal fog.”