Sir James smiled.
‘The jury won’t be in Society, Mr Mont.’
‘My wife doesn’t feel like making an apology, anyway, unless there’s an expression of regret on the other side; and I don’t see why she should.’
Sir James Foskisson seemed to breathe more freely.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we have to consider whether to use the detective’s evidence or not. If we do, we shall need to subpoena the hall porter and the servants at Mr – er – Curfew’s flat.’
‘Exactly,’ said Soames; ‘that’s what we’re here to decide.’ It was as if he had said: ‘The conference is now opened.’
Sir James perused the detective’s evidence for five silent minutes.
‘If this is confirmed, even partially,’ he said at last, ‘we win.’
Michael had gone to the window. The trees in the garden had tiny buds; some pigeons were strutting on the grass below. He heard Soames say:
‘I ought to tell you that they’ve been shadowing my daughter. There’s nothing, of course, except some visits to a young American dangerously ill of pneumonia at his hotel.’
‘Of which I knew and approved,’ said Michael, without turning round.
‘Could we call him?’
‘I believe he’s still at Bournemouth. But he was in love with Miss Ferrar.’
Sir James turned to Soames.
‘If there’s no question of a settlement, we’d better go for the gloves. Merely to cross-examine as to books and play and clubs is very inconclusive.’
‘Have you read the dark scene in “The Plain Dealer”?’ asked Soames; ‘and that novel, Canthar?’
‘All very well, Mr Forsyte, but impossible to say what a jury would make of impersonal evidence like that.’
Michael had come back to his seat.
‘I’ve a horror,’ he said, ‘of dragging in Miss Ferrar’s private life.’
‘No doubt. But do you want me to win the case?’
‘Not that way. Can’t we go into Court, say nothing, and pay up?’
Sir James Foskisson smiled and looked at Soames. ‘Really,’ he seemed to say, ‘why did you bring me this young man?’
Soames, however, had been pursuing his own thoughts.
‘There’s too much risk about that flat; if we failed there, it might be a matter of twenty thousand pounds. Besides, they would certainly call my daughter. I want to prevent that at all costs. I thought you could turn the whole thing into an indictment of modern morality.’
Sir James Foskisson moved in his chair, and the pupils of his light-blue eyes became as pin-points. He nodded almost imperceptibly three times, precisely as if he had seen the Holy Ghost.
‘When shall we be reached?’ he said to very young Nicholas.
‘Probably next Thursday – Mr Justice Brane.’
‘Very well. I’ll see you again on Monday. Good evening.’ And he sank back into an immobility, which neither Soames nor Michael felt equal to disturbing.
They went away silent – very young Nicholas tarrying in conversation with Sir James’s devil.
Turning at the Temple station, Michael murmured:
‘It was just as if he’d said: “Some stunt!” wasn’t it? I’m looking in at The Outpost, sir. If you’re going back to Fleur, will you tell her?’
Soames nodded. There it was! He had to do everything that was painful.
Chapter Two
‘NOT GOING TO HAVE IT’
IN the office of The Outpost Mr Blythe had just been in conversation with one of those great business men who make such deep impression on all to whom they voice their views in strict confidence. If Sir Thomas Lockit did not precisely monopolize the control of manufacture in Great Britain, he, like others, caused almost anyone to think so – his knowledge was so positive and his emphasis so cold. In his view the country must resume the position held before the Great War. It all hinged on coal – a question of this seven hours a day; and they were ‘not going to have it’. A shilling, perhaps two shillings, off the cost of coal. They were ‘not going to have’ Europe doing without British produce. Very few people knew Sir Thomas Lockit’s mind; but nearly all who did were extraordinarily gratified.
Mr Blythe, however, was biting his finger, and spitting out the result.
‘Who was that fellow with the grey moustache?’ asked Michael.
“Lockit. He’s “not going to have it”.’
‘Oh!’ said Michael, in some surprise.
‘One sees more and more, Mont, that the really dangerous people are not the politicians, who want things with public passion – that is, mildly, slowly; but the big business men, who want things with private passion, strenuously, quickly. They know their own minds; and if we don’t look out they’ll wreck the country.’