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.'
Soames had done for him! And this judgment was in George's eyes.
"They talk of suicide here," he said at last. "That cat won't jump."
Soames shook his head. "An accident," he muttered.
Clenching his fist on the paper, George crammed it into his pocket. He
could not resist a parting shot.
"H'mm! All flourishing at home? Any little Soameses yet?"
With a face as white as the steps of Jobson's, and a lip raised as if
snarling, Soames brushed past him and was gone....
On reaching home, and entering the little lighted hall with his
latchkey, the first thing that caught his eye was his wife's
gold-mounted umbrella lying on the rug chest.
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