His meeting with ‘old Mont’ took place at ‘Snooks’ directly after lunch. The tape in the hall, at which he glanced on going in, recorded a further heavy drop in the mark. Just as he thought: The thing was getting valueless!
Sitting there, sipping coffee, the baronet looked to Soames almost offensively spry. Two to one he had realized nothing! ‘Well!’ thought Soames, ‘as old Uncle Jolyon used to say, I shall astonish his weak nerves!’
And without preamble he began.
‘How are you, Mont? This mark’s valueless. You realize we’ve lost the P.P.R.S. about a quarter of a million by that precious foreign policy of Elderson’s. I’m not sure an action won’t lie against us for taking unjustifiable risk. But what I’ve come to see you about is this.’ He retailed the interview with the clerk, Butterfield, watching the eyebrows of his listener, and finished with the words: ‘What do you say?’
Sir Lawrence, whose foot was jerking his whole body, fixed his monocle.
‘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 Chile 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,’ someone 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 dog-like! Invent a thing like that – was it possible? He said abruptly: