



Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.









The Town Traveller


by

George Gissing




CONTENTS

       I  MR. GAMMON BREAKFASTS IN BED
      II  A MISSING UNCLE
     III  THE CHINA SHOP
      IV  POLLY AND MR. PARISH
       V  A NONDESCRIPT
      VI  THE HEAD WAITER AT CHAFFEY'S
     VII  POLLY'S WRATH
    VIII  MR. GAMMON'S RESOLVE
      IX  POLLY'S DEFIANCE
       X  THE STORMING OF THE FORT
      XI  THE NOSE OF THE TREFOYLES
     XII  POLLY CONDESCENDS
    XIII  GAMMON THE CRAFTY
     XIV  MR. PARISH PURSUES A BROUGHAM
      XV  THE NAME OF GILDERSLEEVE
     XVI  AN ALLY IN THE QUEST
    XVII  POLLY SHOWS WEAKNESS
   XVIII  LORD POLPERRO'S REPRESENTATIVE
     XIX  NOT IN THE SECRET
      XX  THE HUSBAND'S RETURN
     XXI  HIS LORDSHIP'S WILL
    XXII  NEW YEAR'S EVE
   XXIII  HIS LORDSHIP RETIRES
    XXIV  THE TRAVELLER'S FICKLENESS AND FRAUD
     XXV  THE MISSING WORD
    XXVI  A DOUBLE EVENT
   XXVII  THE TRAVELLER AT REST




CHAPTER I

MR. GAMMON BREAKFASTS IN BED


Moggie, the general, knocked at Mr. Gammon's door, and was answered by
a sleepy "Hallo?"

"Mrs. Bubb wants to know if you know what time it is, sir? 'Cos it's
half-past eight an' more."

"All right!" sounded cheerfully from within. "Any letters for me?"

"Yes, sir; a 'eap."

"Bring 'em up, and put 'em under the door. And tell Mrs. Bubb I'll have
breakfast in bed; you can put it down outside and shout. And I say,
Moggie, ask somebody to run across and get me a 'Police News' and
'Clippings' and 'The Kennel'--understand? Two eggs, Moggie, and three
rashers, toasted crisp--understand?"

As the girl turned to descend a voice called to her from another room
on the same floor, a voice very distinctly feminine, rather shrill, and
a trifle imperative.

"Moggie, I want my hot water-sharp!"

"It ain't nine yet, miss," answered Moggie in a tone of remonstrance.

"I know that--none of your cheek! If you come up here hollering at
people's doors, how can anyone sleep? Bring the hot water at once, and
mind it _is_ hot."

"You'll have to wait till it _gits_ 'ot, miss."

"_Shall_ I? If it wasn't too much trouble I'd come out and smack your
face for you, you dirty little wretch!"

The servant--she was about sixteen, and no dirtier than became her
position--scampered down the stairs, burst into the cellar kitchen, and
in a high, tearful wail complained to her mistress of the indignity she
had suffered. There was no living in the house with that Miss Sparkes,
who treated everybody like dirt under her feet. Smack her face, would
she? What next? And all because she said the water would have to be
'_otted_. And Mr. Gammon wanted his breakfast in bed, and--and--why,
there now, it had all been drove out of her mind by that Miss Sparkes.

Mrs. Bubb, the landlady, was frying some sausages for her first-floor
lodgers; as usual at this hour she wore (presumably over some invisible
clothing) a large shawl and a petticoat, her thin hair, black streaked
with grey, knotted and pinned into a ball on the top of her head. Here
and there about the kitchen ran four children, who were snatching a
sort of picnic breakfast whilst they made ready for school. They looked
healthy enough, and gabbled, laughed, sang, without heed to the elder
folk. Their mother, healthy too, and with no ill-natured face-a slow,
dull, sluggishly-mirthful woman of a common London type-heard Moggie
out, and shook up the sausages before replying.

"Never you mind Miss Sparkes; I'll give her a talkin' to when she comes
down. What was it as Mr. Gammon wanted? Breakfast in bed? And what
else? I never see such a girl for forgetting!"

"Well, didn't I tell you as my 'ead had never closed the top!" urged
Moggie in plaintive key. "How can I 'elp myself?"

"Here, take them letters up to him, and ask again; and if Miss Sparkes
says anything don't give her no answer--see? Billy, fill the big
kettle, and put it on before you go. Sally, you ain't a-goin' to school
without brushin' your 'air? Do see after your sister, Janey, an' don't
let her look such a slap-cabbage. Beetrice, stop that 'ollerin'; it
fair mismerizes me!"

Having silently thrust five letters under Mr. Gammon's door, Moggie
gave a very soft tap, and half whispered a request that the lodger
would repeat his orders. Mr. Gammon did so with perfect good humour. As
soon as his voice had ceased that of Miss Sparkes sounded from the
neighbouring bedroom.

"Is that the water?"

For the pleasure of the thing Moggie stood to listen, an angry grin on
her flushed face.

"Moggie!--I'll give that little beast what for! Are you there?"

The girl made a quick motion with both her hands as if clawing an
enemy's face, then coughed loudly, and went away with a sound of
stamping on the thinly-carpeted stairs. One minute later Miss Sparkes'
door opened and Miss Sparkes herself rushed forth--a startling vision
of wild auburn hair about a warm complexion, and a small, brisk figure
girded in a flowery dressing-gown. She called at the full pitch of her
voice for Mrs. Bubb.

"Do you hear me? Mrs. Bubb, have the kindness to send me up my hot
water immejately! This moment, if you please!"

There came an answer, but not from the landlady. It sounded so near to
Miss Sparkes that she sprang back into her room.

"Patience, Polly! All in good time, my dear. Wrong foot out of bed this
morning?"

Her door slammed, and there followed a lazy laugh from Mr. Gammon's
chamber.

In due time the can of hot water was brought up, and soon after it came
a tray for Mr. Gammon, on which, together with his breakfast, lay the
three newspapers he had bespoken. Polly Sparkes throughout her
leisurely toilet was moved to irritation and curiosity by the sound of
frequent laughter on the other side of the party wall--uproarious
peals, long chucklings in a falsetto key, staccato bursts of mirth.

"That is the comic stuff in 'Clippings,'" she said to herself with an
involuntary grin. "What a fool he is! And why's he staying in bed this
morning? Got his holiday, I suppose. I'd make better use of it than
that."

She came forth presently in such light and easy costume as befitted a
young lady of much leisure on a hot morning of June. Meaning to pass an
hour or two in quarrelling with Mrs. Bubb she had arrayed herself thus
early with more care than usual, that her colours and perfumes might
throw contempt upon the draggle-tailed landlady, whom, by the by, she
had known since her childhood. On the landing, where she paused for a
moment, she hummed an air, with the foreseen result that Mr. Gammon
called out to her.

"Polly!"

She vouchsafed no answer.

"Miss Sparkes!"

"Well?"

"Will you come with me to see my bow-wows this fine day?"

"No, Mr. Gammon, I certainly will not!"

"Thank you, Polly, I felt a bit afraid you might say yes."

The tone was not offensive, whatever the words might be, and the laugh
that came after would have softened any repartee, with its undernote of
good humour and harmless gaiety. Biting her lips to preserve the
dignity of silence, Polly passed downstairs. Sunshine through a landing
window illumined the dust floating thickly about the staircase and
heated the familiar blend of lodging-house smells--the closeness of
small rooms that are never cleansed, the dry rot of wall-paper,
plaster, and old wood, the fustiness of clogged carpets trodden thin,
the ever-rising vapours from a sluttish kitchen. As Moggie happened to
be wiping down the front steps the door stood open, affording a glimpse
of trams and omnibuses, cabs and carts, with pedestrians bobbing past
in endless variety--the life of Kennington Road--all dust and sweat
under a glaring summer sun. To Miss Sparkes a cheery and inviting
spectacle--for the whole day was before her, to lounge or ramble until
the hour which summoned her to the agreeable business of selling
programmes at a fashionable theatre. The employment was precarious;
even with luck in the way of tips it meant nothing very brilliant; but
something had happened lately which made Polly indifferent to this view
of the matter. She had a secret, and enjoyed it all the more because it
enabled her to excite not envy alone, but dark suspicions in the people
who observed her.

Mrs. Bubb, for instance--who so far presumed upon old acquaintance as
to ask blunt questions, and offer homely advice--plainly thought she
was going astray. It amused Polly to encourage this misconception, and
to take offence on every opportunity. As she went down into the kitchen
she fingered a gold watch-chain that hung from her blouse to a little
pocket at her waist. Mrs. Bubb would spy it at once, and in course of
the quarrel about this morning's hot water would be sure to allude to
it.

It turned out one of the finest frays Polly had ever enjoyed, and was
still rich in possibilities when, at something past eleven, the kitchen
door suddenly opened and there entered Mr. Gammon.




CHAPTER II

A MISSING UNCLE


He glanced at Mrs. Bubb, at the disorderly remnants of breakfast on the
long deal table, then at Polly, whose face was crimson with the joy of
combat.

"Don't let me interrupt you, ladies. Blaze away! if I may so express
myself. It does a man good to see such energy on a warm morning."

"I've said all I'm a-goin' to say," exclaimed Mrs. Bubb, as she mopped
her forehead with a greasy apron. "I've warned her, that's all, and I
mean her well, little as she deserves it. Now, you, Moggie, don't stand
gahpin' there git them breakfast things washed up, can't you? It'll be
tea time agin before the beds is made. And what's come to _you_ this
morning?"

She addressed Mr. Gammon, who had seated himself on a corner of the
table, as if to watch and listen. He was a short, thick-set man with
dark, wiry hair roughened into innumerable curls, and similar whiskers
ending in a clean razor-line halfway down the cheek. His eyes were blue
and had a wondering innocence, which seemed partly the result of
facetious affectation, as also was the peculiar curve of his lips, ever
ready for joke or laughter. Yet the broad, mobile countenance had lines
of shrewdness and of strength, plain enough whenever it relapsed into
gravity, and the rude shaping of jaw and chin might have warned anyone
disposed to take advantage of the man's good nature. He wore a suit of
coarse tweed, a brown bowler hat, a blue cotton shirt with white stock
and horseshoe pin, rough brown leggings, tan boots, and in his hand was
a dog-whip. This costume signified that Mr. Gammon felt at leisure,
contrasting as strongly as possible with the garb in which he was wont
to go about his ordinary business--that of commercial traveller. He had
a liking for dogs, and kept a number of them in the back premises of an
inn at Dulwich, whither he usually repaired on Sundays. When at
Dulwich, Mr. Gammon fancied himself in completely rural seclusion; it
seemed to him that he had shaken off the dust of cities, that he was
far from the clamour of the crowd, amid peace and simplicity; hence his
rustic attire, in which he was fond of being photographed with dogs
about him. A true-born child of town, he would have found the real
country quite unendurable; in his doggy rambles about Dulwich he always
preferred a northerly direction, and was never so happy as when sitting
in the inn-parlour amid a group of friends whose voices rang the purest
Cockney. Even in his business he disliked engagements which took him
far from London; his "speciality" (as he would have said) was town
travel, and few men had had more varied experience in that region of
enterprise.

"I'm going to have a look at the bow-wows," he replied to Mrs. Bubb.
"Polly won't come with me; unkind of her, ain't it?"

"Mr. Gammon," remarked the young lady with a severe glance, "I'll thank
you not to be so familiar with my name. If you don't know any better,
let me tell you it's very ungentlemanly."

He rose, doffed his hat, bowed profoundly, and begged her pardon, in
acknowledgment of which Polly gave a toss of the head. Miss Sparkes was
neither beautiful nor stately, but her appearance had the sort of
distinction which corresponds to these qualities in the society of
Kennington Road; she filled an appreciable space in the eyes of Mr.
Gammon; her abundance of auburn hair, her high colour, her full lips
and excellent teeth, her finely-developed bust, and the freedom of her
poses (which always appeared to challenge admiration and anticipate
impertinence) had their effectiveness against a kitchen background, and
did not entirely lose it when she flitted about the stalls at the
theatre selling programmes. She was but two-and-twenty. Mr. Gammon had
reached his fortieth year. In general his tone of intimacy passed
without rebuke; at moments it had seemed not unacceptable. But Polly's
temper was notoriously uncertain, and her frankness never left people
in doubt as to the prevailing mood.

"Would you like a little ball-pup. Miss Sparkes?" he pursued in a
conciliatory tone. "A lovely little button-ear? There's a new litter
say the word, and I'll bring you one."

"Thank you. I don't care for dogs."

"No? But I'm sure you would if you kept one. Now, I have a cobby little
fox terrier--just the dog for a lady. No? Or a sweet little
black-and-tan--just turning fifteen pounds, with a lovely neck and
kissing spots on both cheeks. I wouldn't offer her to everybody."

"Very good of you," replied Miss Sparkes contemptuously.

"Why ain't you goin' to business?" asked the landlady.

"I'll tell you. We had a little difference of opinion yesterday. The
governors have been disappointed about a new line in the fancy leather;
it wouldn't go, and I told them the reason, but that wasn't good
enough. They hinted that it was my fault. Of course, I said nothing; I
never do in such cases. But--this morning I had breakfast in bed."

He spoke with eyes half closed and an odd vibration of the upper lip,
then broke into a laugh.

"You're an independent party, you are," said Mrs. Bubb, eyeing him with
admiration.

"It was always more than I could do to stand a hint of that kind. Not
so long ago I used to lose my temper, but I've taken pattern by
Polly--I mean Miss Sparkes--and now I do it quietly. That reminds
me"--his look changed to seriousness--"do you know anyone of the name
of Quodling?"

Polly--to whom he spoke--answered with a dry negative.

"Sure? Try and think if you ever heard your uncle speak of the name."

The girl's eyes fell as if, for some reason, she felt a momentary
embarrassment. It passed, but in replying she looked away from Mr.
Gammon.

"Quodling? Never heard it--why?"

"Why, there is a man called Quodling who might be your uncle's twin
brother--he looks so like him. I caught sight of him in the City, and
tracked him till I got to know his place of business and his name. For
a minute or two I thought I'd found your uncle; I really did. Gosh! I
said to myself, there's Clover at last! I wonder I didn't pin him like
a bull terrier. But, as you know, I'm cautious--that's how I've made my
fortune, Polly."

Miss Sparkes neither observed the joke nor resented the name; she was
listening with a preoccupied air.

"You'll never find _him_," said Mrs. Bubb, shaking her head.

"Don't be so sure of that. I shan't lose sight of this man Quodling.
It's the strangest likeness I ever saw, and I shan't be satisfied till
I've got to know if he has any connexion with the name of Clover. It
ain't easy to get at, but I'll manage it somehow. Now, if I had Polly
to help me--I mean Miss Sparkes--"

With a muttering of impatience the girl rose; in the same moment she
drew from her belt a gold watch, and deliberately consulted it.
Observing this Mrs. Bubb looked towards Mr. Gammon, who, also
observant, returned the glance.

"I shan't want dinner," Polly remarked in an off-hand way as she moved
towards the door.

"Going to see Mrs. Clover?" Gammon inquired.

"I'm sick of going there. It's always the same talk."

"Wait till _your_ 'usband runs away from you and stays away for five
years," said Mrs. Bubb with a renewal of anger, "and then see what
_you_ find to talk about."

Polly laughed and went away humming.

"If it wasn't that I feel afraid for her," continued Mrs. Bubb in a
lower voice, "I'd give that young woman notice to quit. Her cheek's
getting past everything. Did you see her gold watch and chain?"

"Yes, I did; where does it come from?"

"That's more than _I_ can tell you, Mr. Gammon. I don't want to think
ill of the girl, but there's jolly queer goin's-on. And she's so brazen
about it! I don't know what to think."

Gammon knitted his brows and gazed round the kitchen.

"I think Polly's straight," he observed at length. "I don't seem to
notice anything wrong with her except her cheek and temper. She'll have
to be taken down a peg one of these days, but I don't envy the man
that'll have the job. It won't be me, for certain," he added with a
laugh.

Moggie came into the room, bringing a telegram.

"For me?" said Gammon. "Just what I expected." Reading, he broadened
his visage into a grin of infinite satisfaction. "'Please explain
absence. Hope nothing wrong.' How kind of them, ain't it! Yesterday
they chucked me; now they're polite. Reply-paid too; very considerate.
They shall have their reply."

He laid the blank form on the table and wrote upon it in pencil, every
letter beautifully shaped in a first-rate commercial hand:

"Go to Bath and get your heads shaved." "You ain't a-goin' to send
that!" exclaimed Mrs. Bubb, when he had held the message to her for
perusal.

"It'll do them good. They're like Polly--want taking down a peg."

Moggie ran off with the paper to the waiting boy, and Mr. Gammon
laughed for five minutes uproariously.

"Would you like a little bull-pup, Mrs. Bubb? he asked at length.

"Not me, Mr. Gammon. I've enough pups of my own, thank you all the
same."




CHAPTER III

THE CHINA SHOP


Mr. Gammon took his way down Kennington Road, walking at a leisurely
pace, smiting his leg with his doubled dog-whip, and looking about him
with his usual wideawake, contented air. He had in perfection the art
of living for the moment, no art in his case, but a natural
characteristic, for which it never occurred to him to be grateful.
Indeed, it is a common characteristic in the world to which Mr. Gammon
belonged. He and his like take what the heavens send them, grumbling or
rejoicing, but never reflecting upon their place in the sum of things.
To Mr. Gammon life was a wonderfully simple matter. He had his worries
and his desires, but so long as he suffered neither from headache nor
stomach-ache, these things interfered not at all with his enjoyment of
a fine morning.

He was in no hurry to make for Dulwich; as he walked along his thoughts
began to turn in a different direction, and on reaching the end of
Upper Kennington Lane he settled the matter by striking towards
Vauxhall Station. A short railway journey and another pleasant saunter
brought him to a street off Battersea Park Road, and to a china shop,
over which stood the name of Clover.

In the window hung a card with an inscription in bold letters: "Glass,
china, and every kind of fashionable ornament for the table for hire on
moderate terms." Mr. Gammon read this with an appreciative smile,
which, accompanied by a nod, became a greeting to Mrs. Clover, who was
aware of him from within the shop. He entered.

"How does it go?"

"Two teas and a supper yesterday. A wedding breakfast this morning."

"Bravo! What did I tell you? You'll want a bigger place before the end
of the year."

The shop was well stocked, the window well laid out; everything
indicated a flourishing, though as yet a small, business. Mrs. Clover,
a neat, comely, and active woman, with a complexion as clear as that of
her own best china, chatted vivaciously with the visitor, whilst she
superintended the unpacking of a couple of crates by a muscular youth
and a young lady (to use the technical term), her shop assistant.

"Why are you off to-day?" she inquired presently, after moving to the
doorway for more private talk.

Mr. Gammon made his explanation with spirit and humour.

"You're a queer man, if ever there was one," Mrs. Clover remarked after
watching him for a moment and averting her eyes as soon as they were
met by his. "You know your own business best, but I should have
thought--"

It was a habit of hers to imply a weighty opinion by suddenly breaking
off, a form of speech known to the grammarians by a name which would
have astonished Mrs. Clover. Few women of her class are prone to this
kind of emphasis. Her friendly manner had a quietness, a reserve in its
cordiality, which suited well with the frank, pleasant features of a
matron not yet past her prime.

"It's all right," he replied, more submissively than he was wont to
speak. "I shall do better next time; I'm looking out for a permanency."

"So you have been for ten years, to my knowledge."

They laughed together. At this point came an interruption in the shape
of a customer who drove up in a hansom: a loudly-dressed woman, who, on
entering the shop, conversed with Mrs. Clover in the lowest possible
voice, and presently returned to her vehicle with uneasy glances left
and right. Mr. Gammon, who had walked for some twenty yards, sauntered
back to the shop, and his friend met him on the threshold.

"That's the sort," she whispered with a merry eye. "Eight-roomed 'ouse
near Queen's Road Station. Wants things for an at 'ome--teaspoons as
well--couldn't I make it ninepence the two dozen! That's the kind of
place where there'll be breakages. But they pay well, the breakages do."

"Well, I won't keep you now," said Gammon. "I'm going to have a peep at
the bow-wows. Could I look in after closing?"

Mrs. Clover turned her head away, pretending to observe the muscular
youth within.

"Fact is," he pursued, "I want to speak to you about Polly."

"What about her?"

"Nothing much. I'll tell you this evening."

Without more words he nodded and went off. Mrs. Clover stood for a
moment with an absent expression on her comely face, then turned into
the shop and gave the young man in shirt-sleeves a bit of her mind
about the time he was taking over his work.

She was anything but a bad-tempered woman. Her rating had no malice in
it, and only signified that she could not endure laziness.

"Hot, is it? Of course it's hot. What do you expect in June? You don't
mind the heat when you're playing cricket, I know."

"No, mum," replied the young giant with a grin.

"How many runs did you make last Saturday?"

"Fifty-three, mum, and caught out."

"Then don't go talking to me about the heat. Finish that job and run
off with this filter to Mrs. Gubbins's."

Her life had not lacked variety. Married at eighteen, after a month's
courtship, to a man of whom she knew next to nothing, she lived for a
time in Liverpool, where her husband--older by ten years--pursued
various callings in the neighbourhood of the docks. After the birth of
her only child, a daughter, they migrated to Glasgow, and struggled
with great poverty for several years. This period was closed by the
sudden disappearance of Mr. Clover. He did not actually desert his wife
and child; at regular intervals letters and money arrived from him
addressed to the care of Mrs. Clover's parents, who kept a china shop
at Islington; beyond the postmarks, which indicated constant travel in
England and abroad, these letters (always very affectionate) gave no
information as to the writer's circumstances. When Mrs. Clover had
lived with her parents for about three years she was summoned by her
husband to Dulwich, where the man had somehow established himself as a
cab proprietor; he explained his wanderings as the result of mere
restlessness, and with this cold comfort Mrs. Clover had to be content.
By degrees they settled into a not unhappy life; the girl, Minnie, was
growing up, the business might have been worse, everything seemed to
promise unbroken domestic tranquillity, when one fine day Mr. Clover
was again missing. Again he sent letters and money, the former written
in a strangely mingled mood of grief and hopefulness, the remittance
varying from half a sovereign to a ten-pound note. This time the
letters were invariably posted in London, but in different districts.
Clover declared that he was miserable away from home, and, without
offering any reason for his behaviour, promised that he would soon
return.

Six years had since elapsed. To afford herself occupation Mrs. Clover
went into the glass and china business, assisted by her parents'
experience, and by the lively interest of her friend Mr. Gammon. Minnie
Clover, a pretty and interesting girl, was now employed at Doulton's
potteries. All would have been well but for the harassing mystery that
disturbed their lives. Clover's letters were still posted in London;
money still came from him, sometimes in remittances of as much as
twenty pounds. But handwriting and composition often suggested that the
writer was either ill or intoxicated. The latter seemed not unlikely,
for Clover had always inclined to the bottle. His wife no longer
distressed herself. The first escapade she had forgiven; the second
estranged her. She had resolved, indeed, that if her husband did again
present himself his home should not be under her roof.

The shop closed at eight. At a quarter past the house-bell rang and a
small servant admitted Mr. Gammon, who came along the passage and into
the back parlour, where Mrs. Clover was wont to sit. As usual at this
hour her daughter was present. Minnie sat reading; she rose for a
moment to greet the visitor, spoke a word or two very modestly, even
shyly, and let her eyes fall again upon the book. Considering the
warmth of the day it was not unnatural that Mr. Gammon showed a very
red face, shining with moisture; but his decided hilarity, his tendency
to hum tunes and beat time with his feet, his noisy laughter and
expansive talk, could hardly be attributed to the same cause. Having
taken a seat near Minnie he kept his look steadily fixed upon her, and
evidently discoursed with a view of affording her amusement; not
altogether successfully it appeared, for the young girl--she was but
seventeen--grew more and more timid, less and less able to murmur
replies. She was prettier than her mother had ever been, and spoke with
a better accent. Her features suggested a more delicate physical
inheritance than Mrs. Clover's comeliness could account for. As a
matter of fact she had her father's best traits, though Mrs. Glover
frequently thanked goodness that in character she by no means resembled
him.

Mr. Gammon was in the midst of a vivid description of a rat hunt, in
which a young terrier had displayed astonishing mettle, when his
hostess abruptly interposed.

"Minnie, I wish you'd put your hat on and run round to Mrs. Walker's
for me. I'll give you a message when you're ready."

Very willingly the girl rose and left the room. Mr. Gammon, whose
countenance had fallen, turned to the mother with jocose remonstrance.

"Now I call that too bad. What did you want to go sending her away for?"

"What does it matter?" was Mrs. Clover's reply, uttered
good-humouredly, but with some impatience. "The child doesn't want to
hear about rats and terriers."

"Child? I don't call her a child. Besides, you'd only to give me a hint
to talk of something else." He leaned forward, and softened his voice
to a note of earnest entreaty. "She won't be long, will she?"

"Oh, I dare say not!"

A light tap at the door called Mrs. Clover away. She whispered outside
with Minnie and returned smiling.

"Have you told her to be quick?"

Mrs. Clover did not answer the question. Sitting with her arms on the
round table she looked Mr. Gammon steadily in the face, and said with
decision:

"Never you come here again after you've been to Dulwich!"

"Why not?"

"Never mind. I don't want to have to speak plainer. If ever I have to--"

Mrs. Clover made her great effect of the pregnant pause. The listener,
who had sobered wonderfully, sat gazing at her, his blue eyes comically
rueful.

"She isn't coming back at all?" fell from his lips.

"Of course she isn't."

"Well, I'm blest if I thought you could be so unkind, Mrs. Clover."

She was silent for three ticks of the clock, an odd hardness having
come over her face, then, flushing just a little, as if after an
effort, she smiled again, and spoke in her ordinary tone.

"What had you to say about Polly?"

"Polly?--Polly be hanged! I half believe Polly's no better than she
should be."

The flush on Mrs. Clover's face deepened and she spoke severely.

"What do you mean by saying such things?"

"I didn't meant to," exclaimed Gammon, with hasty penitence. "Look
here, I really didn't; but you put me out. She had some presents given
her, that's all."

"I know it," said Mrs. Clover. "She's been here to-day--called this
afternoon."

"Polly did?"

"Yes, and behaved very badly too. I don't know what's coming to the
girl. If I had a temper like that I'd--"

What Mrs. Clover would do remained conjectural.

"It's a good thing," remarked the other, laughing. "Trust Polly to take
care of herself. She cheeked you, did she?"

They discussed Miss Sparkes very thoroughly. There had been a battle
royal in the afternoon, for the girl came only to "show off" and make
herself generally offensive. Mrs. Clover desired to be friendly with
her sister's daughter, but would stand no "cheek," and had said so.

"Polly's all right," remarked Mr. Gammon finally. "Don't you fret about
her. She ain't that kind. I know 'em."

"Then why did you say just now--"

"Because you riled me, sending Minnie away."

Again Mrs. Clover reflected, and again she looked her friend steadily
in the face.

"Why did you want her to stay?"

Mr. Gammon's heated visage glowed with incredible fervour. He shrugged
his shoulders, shuffled his feet, and at length burst out with:

"Well, I should think you know. It isn't the first time I've showed it,
I should think."

"Then I'm very sorry. I'm real sorry."

The words fell gently, and one might have thought that Mrs. Clover was
softening the rejection of a tender proposal made to herself.

"You mean it's no good?" said the man.

"Not the least, not a bit. And never could be."

Mr. Gammon nodded several times, as if calculating the force of the
blow, and nerving himself to bear it.

"Well, if you say it," he replied at length, "I suppose it's a
fact--but I call it hard lines. Ever since I was old enough to think of
marrying I've been looking out for the right girl--always looking out,
and now I thought I'd found her. Hanged if it isn't hard lines! I could
have married scores--scores; but do you suppose I'd have a girl that
showed she was only waiting for me to say the word? Not me! That's what
took me in Minnie. She's the first of that kind I ever knew--the only
one. But, I say, do you mean you won't let me try? You surely don't
mean that, Mrs. Clover?"

"Yes, I do. I mean just that, Mr. Gammon."

"Why? Because I haven't got a permanency?"

"Oh, no."

"Because I--because I go to Dulwich?"

"No."

"Why, then?"

"I can't tell you why, and I don't know why, but I mean it. And what's
more"--her eyes sparkled--"if ever you say such word to Minnie you
never pass my door again."

This seemed to take Mr. Gammon's breath away. After a rather long
silence he looked about for his hat, then for his dog-whip.

"I'll say good night, Mrs. Clover. Hot, isn't it? Hottest day yet. I
say, you're not riled with me? That's all right. See you again before
long."

He did not make straight for home, but rambled in a circuit for the
next hour. When darkness had fallen he found himself again near the
china shop, and paused, for a moment only, by the door. On the opposite
side of the street stood a man who had also paused in a slow walk, and
who also looked towards the shop. But Mr. Gammon went his way without
so much as a glance at that dim figure.




CHAPTER IV

POLLY AND MR. PARISH


Two first-rate quarrels in one day put Polly Sparkes into high good
humour. On leaving her aunt's house in the afternoon she strolled into
Battersea Park, and there treated herself to tea and cakes at a little
round table in the open air. Mrs. Clover, though the quarrel was
prolonged until four o'clock, had offered no refreshments, which seemed
to Miss Sparkes a very gross instance of meanness and inhospitality.

At a table near to her sat two girls, for some reason taking a holiday,
who conversed in a way which proved them to be "mantle hands," and
Polly listened and smiled. Did she not well remember the day when the
poverty of home sent her, a little girl, to be "trotter" in a workroom?
But she soon found her way out of that. A sharp tongue, a bold eye, and
a brilliant complexion helped her on, step by step, or jump by jump,
till she had found much more agreeable ways of supporting herself. All
unimpeachable, for Polly was fiercely virtuous, and put a very high
value indeed upon such affections as she had to dispose of.

The girls were appraising her costume; she felt their eyes and enjoyed
the envy in them. Her hat, with its immense bunch of poppies; her
blouse of shot silk in green and violet; her gold watch, carelessly
drawn out and returned to its pocket. "Now what do you think I am? A
real lady, I'll bet!" She caught a whisper about her hair. Red, indeed!
Didn't they wish they had anything like it! Polly could have told them
that at a ball she graced with her presence not long ago her hair was
done up with no less than seventy-two pins. Think of that! Seventy-two
pins!

She munched a cream tart, and turned her back upon the envious pair.

Back to Kennington Road by omnibus, riding outside, her eyes and hair
doing execution upon a young man in a very high collar, who was, she
saw, terribly tempted to address her, but, happily for himself, could
not pluck up courage. Polly liked to be addressed by strange young men;
experience had made her so skilful in austere rebuke.

She rested in her bedroom, as stuffy and disorderly a room as could
have been found in all Kennington Road. Moggie, the general, was only
allowed to enter it in the occupant's presence, otherwise who knew what
prying and filching might go on? She paid a very low rent, thanks to
Mrs. Bubb's good nature, but the strained relations between them made
it possible that she would have to leave, and she had been thinking
to-day that she could very well afford a room in a better
neighbourhood; not that, all things considered, she desired to quit
this house, but Mrs. Bubb took too much upon herself. Mrs. Bubb was the
widow of a police officer; one of her children was in the Police
Orphanage at Twickenham, and for the support of each of the others she
received half a crown a week. This, to be sure, justified the good
woman in a certain spirit of pride; but when it came to calling names
and making unpleasant insinuations--If a young lady cannot have a
harmless and profitable secret, what is the use of being a young lady?

On the way to her duties at the theatre, about seven o'clock, she
entered a little stationer's shop in an obscure street, and asked with a
smile whether any letter had arrived for her. Yes, there was one
addressed in a careless hand to "Miss Robinson." This, in another
obscure street hard by she opened. On half a sheet of notepaper was
printed with pen and ink the letters _W. S. T._--that was all. Polly
had no difficulty in interpreting this cipher. She tore up envelope and
paper, and walked briskly on.

There was but a poor "house" this evening. Commission on programmes
would amount to very little indeed; but the young gentleman with the
weak eyes, who came evening after evening, and must have seen the
present piece a hundred times or so, gave her half a crown, weeping
copiously from nervousness as he touched her hand. He looked about
seventeen, and Polly, who always greeted him with a smile of sportive
condescension, wondered how his parents or guardians could allow him to
live so recklessly.

She left half an hour before the end of the performance with a girl who
accompanied her a short way, talking and laughing noisily. Along the
crowded pavement they were followed by a young man, of whose proximity
Miss Sparkes was well aware, though she seemed not to have noticed
him--a slim, narrow-shouldered, high-hatted figure, with the commonest
of well-meaning faces set just now in a tremulously eager, pursuing
look. When Polly's companion made a dart for an omnibus this young man,
suddenly red with joy, took a quick step forward, and Polly saw him
beside her in an attitude of respectful accost.

"Awfully jolly to meet you like this."

"Sure you haven't been waiting?" she asked with good humour.

"Well--I--you said you didn't mind, you know; didn't you?"

"Oh, I don't mind!" she laughed. "If you've nothing better to do.
There's my bus."

"Oh, I say! Don't be in such a hurry. I was going to ask you"--he
panted--"if you'd come and have just a little supper, if you wouldn't
mind."

"Nonsense! You know you can't afford it."

"Oh, yes, I can--quite well. It would be awfully kind of you."

Polly laughed a careless acceptance, and they pressed through the
roaring traffic of cross-ways towards an electric glare. In a few
minutes they were seated amid plush and marble, mirrors and gilding, in
a savoury and aromatic atmosphere. Nothing more delightful to Polly,
who drew off her gloves and made herself thoroughly comfortable, whilst
the young man--his name was Christopher Parish--nervously scanned a
bill of fare. As his bearing proved, Mr. Parish was not quite at home
amid these splendours. As his voice and costume indicated, he belonged
to the great order of minor clerks, and would probably go dinnerless on
the morrow to pay for this evening's festival. The waiter overawed him,
and after a good deal of bungling, with anxious consultation of his
companion's appetite, he ordered something, the nature of which was but
dimly suggested to him by its name. Having accomplished this feat he at
once became hilarious, and began to eat large quantities of dry bread.

Quite without false modesty in the matter of eating and drinking, Polly
made a hearty supper. Christopher ate without consciousness of what was
before him, and talked ceaselessly of his good fortune in getting a
berth at Swettenham's, the great house of Swettenham Brothers, tea
merchants.

"An enormous place--simply enormous! What do you think they pay in
rent?--three thousand eight hundred pounds a year! Could you believe
it? Three thousand eight hundred pounds! And how many people do you
think they employ? Now just guess, do; just make a shot at it!"

"How do I know? Two or three hundred, I dessay."

Christopher's face shone with triumph.

"One thousand--three hundred--and forty-two! Could you believe it?"

"Oh, I dessay," Polly replied, with her mouth full.

"Enormous, isn't it? Why, it's like a town in itself!"

Had his own name been Swettenham he could hardly have shown more pride
in these figures. When Polly inquired how much _they_ made a year he
was unable to reply with exactitude, but the mere thought of what such
a total must be all but overcame him. Personally he profited by his
connexion with the great firm to the extent of two pounds a week, an
advance of ten shillings on what he had hitherto earned. And his
prospects! Why, they were limitless. Once let a fellow get into
Swettenham's--

"You're not doing so bad for a single man," remarked Polly, with
facetious malice in her eye. "But it won't run to a supper like this
very often."

"Oh--well--not often, of course." His voice quavered into sudden
despondency. "Just now and then, you know. Have some cheese?"

"Don't mind--Gorgonzoler."

He paid the bill right bravely and added sixpence for the waiter,
though it cost him as great a pang as the wrenching of a double tooth.
A rapid calculation told him that he must dine at the Aerated Bread
Shop for several days to come. Whilst he was thus computing Polly drew
out her gold watch. It caught his eye, he stood transfixed, and his
stare rose from the watch to Polly's face.

"Just after eleven," she remarked airily, and began to hum.

Christopher had but a silver watch, an heirloom of considerable
antiquity, and the chain was jet. Sunk of a sudden in profoundest gloom
he led the way to the exit, walking like a shamefaced plebeian who had
got into the room by mistake. Polly's spirits were higher than ever.
Just beyond the electric glare she thrust her arm under that of her
mute companion.

"You don't want me to git run over, do you?"

Parish had a thrill of satisfaction, but with difficulty he spoke.

"Let's get out of this crowd--beastly, isn't it?"

"I don't mind a crowd. I like it when I've someone to hang on by."

"Oh, I don't mind it, I like just what you like. What time did you say
it was, Miss Sparkes?"

"Just eleven. Time I was gettin' 'ome. There'll be a bus at the corner."

"I hoped you were going to walk," urged Christopher timidly.

"S'pose I might just as well--if you'll take care of me."

It was a long time since Polly had been so gracious, so mild. All the
way down Whitehall, across the bridge, and into Kennington Road she
chatted of a hundred things, but never glanced at the one which held
complete possession of Christopher's mind. Many times he brought
himself all but to the point of mentioning it, yet his courage
invariably failed. The risk was too great; it needed such a trifling
provocation to disturb Polly's good humour. He perspired under the
warmth of the night and from the tumult of his feelings.

"You mustn't meet me again for a week," said Polly when her dwelling
was within sight.

"Why not?"

"Because I say so--that's enough, ain't it?"

"I say--Polly--"

"I've told you you're not to say 'Polly,'" she interrupted archly.

"You're awfully good, you know--but I wish--"

"What? Never mind; tell me next time. Ta-ta!"

She ran off, and Christopher had no heart to detain her. For five
minutes he hung over the parapet at Westminster, watching the black
flood and asking what was the use of life. On the whole Mr. Parish
found life decidedly agreeable, and after a night's rest, a little
worry notwithstanding, he could go to the City in the great morning
procession, one of myriads exactly like him, and would hopefully dip
his pen in the inkpots of Swettenham Brothers.

Moggie, the general, was just coming from the public-house with two
foaming jugs, one for Mrs. Bubb, the other for Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman,
her first-floor lodgers. Miss Sparkes passed her disdainfully, and
entered with the aid of a latch-key. From upstairs sounded a banjo,
preluding; then the sound of Mr. Cheeseman's voice chanting a popular
refrain:

  Come where the booze is cheaper,
  Come where the pots 'old more,
  Come where the boss is a bit of a joss,
  Come to the pub next door!

Polly could not resist this invitation. She looked in at the
Cheesemans' sitting-room and enjoyed half an hour of friendly gossip
before going to bed.




CHAPTER V

A NONDESCRIPT


Scarcely had quiet fallen upon the house--it was half an hour after
midnight--when at the front door sounded a discreet but resolute
knocking. Mrs. Bubb, though she had retired to her chamber, was not yet
wholly unpresentable; reluctantly, and with wonder, she went to answer
the untimely visitor. After a short parley through the gap of the
chained door she ascended several flights and sought to arouse Mr.
Gammon--no easy task.

"What's up?" shouted her lodger in a voice of half-remembered
conviviality. "House on fire?"

"I hope not indeed. There wouldn't have been much chance for you if it
was. It's your friend Mr. Greenacre, as says he must see you for a
minute."

"All right; send him up, please. What the dickens can he want at this
time o' night!"

Mr. Gammon having promised to see his visitor out again, with due
attention to the house door, the landlady showed a light whilst Mr.
Greenacre mounted the stairs. The gas-jet in his friend's bedroom
displayed him as a gaunt, ill-dressed man of about forty, with a long
unwholesome face, lank hair, and prominent eyes. He began with
elaborate apologies, phrased and uttered with more refinement than his
appearance would have led one to expect. No; he would on no account be
seated. Under the circumstances he could not dream of staying more than
two, or at most three, minutes. He felt really ashamed of himself for
such a flagrant breach of social custom; but if his friend would listen
patiently for one minute--nay, for less.

"I know what you're driving at," broke in Gammon good-humouredly, as he
sat in bed with his knees up. "You've nowhere to sleep--ain't that it?"

"No, no; I assure you no!" exclaimed the other, with unfailing
politeness. "I have excellent lodgings in the parish of St.
Martin's-in-the-Fields; besides, you don't imagine I should disturb you
after midnight for such a trivial cause! You have heard of the death of
Lord Bolsover?"

"Never knew he was living," cried Gammon.

"Nonsense, you are an incorrigible joker. The poor fellow died nearly a
week ago. Of course I must attend his funeral to-morrow down at
Hitchin; I really couldn't neglect to attend his funeral. And here
comes my difficulty. At present I'm driving a' Saponaria' van, and I
shall have to provide a substitute, you see. I thought I had found one,
a very decent fellow called Grosvenor, who declares, by the by, that he
can trace his connexion with the aristocratic house--interesting, isn't
it? But Grosvenor has got into trouble to-day--something about passing
a bad half-crown--a mere mistake, I'm quite sure. Now I've been trying
to find someone else--not an easy thing; and as I _must_ have a
substitute by nine to-morrow, I came in despair to you. I'm _sure_ in
your wide acquaintance, my dear Gammon--"

"Hold on, what's 'Saponaria'?"

"A new washing powder; only started a few days. Big vans, painted
vermilion and indigo, going about town and suburbs distributing
handbills and so on."

"I see. But look here, Greenacre, what's all this rot about Lord
Bolsover?"

"My dear Gammon," protested the other. "I really can't allow you to
speak in that way. I make all allowance for the hour and the
circumstances, but when it comes to the death of a dear friend--"

"How the devil come you to be his friend, or he yours?" shouted Gammon
in comical exasperation.

"Why, surely you have heard me speak of him. Yet, perhaps not. It was
rather a painful subject. The fact is, I once gave the poor fellow a
severe thrashing; it was before he succeeded to the title I was obliged
to do it. Poor Bolsover confessed afterwards that he had behaved badly
(there was a lady in the case), but it put an end to our intimacy. And
now he's gone, and the least I can do is to attend his funeral. That
reminds me, Gammon, I fear I shall have to borrow a sovereign, if it's
quite convenient to you. There's the hire of the black suit, you see,
and the fare to Hitchin. Do you think you could?"

He paused delicately, whereupon Gammon burst into a roar of laughter
which echoed through the still house.

"You're the queerest devil I know," was the remark that followed. "It's
no use trying to make out what you're really up to."

"I have stated the case in very clear terms," replied Greenacre
solemnly. "The chief thing is to find a substitute to drive the
'Saponaria' van."

"What sort of animal in the shafts?"

"Two--a pail of Welsh cobs--good little goers."

"By jingo!" shouted Gammon, "I'll tool 'em round myself. I'm off for
to-morrow, and a job of that kind would just suit me."

Greenacre's face brightened with relief. He began to describe the route
which the "Saponaria" van had to pursue.

"It's the south-east suburbs to-morrow, the main thoroughfares of
Greenwich, Blackheath, Lewisham, and all round there. There are certain
shops to call at to drop bills and samples; no order-taking. Here's the
list. At likely places you throw out a shower of these little blue
cards. Best is near a Board School when the children are about. I'm
greatly obliged to you, Gammon; I never thought you'd be able to do it
yourself. Could you be at the stable just before nine? I'd meet you and
give you a send-off. Bait at--where is it?" He consulted the notebook.
"Yes, Prince of Wales's Feathers, Catford Bridge; no money out of
pocket; all settled in the plan of campaign. Rest the cobs for an hour
or so. Get round to the stables again about five, and I'll be there.
It's very Kind of you; I'm very greatly obliged. And if you
_could_--without inconvenience--"

His eyes fell upon Gammon's clothing, which lay heaped on a chair. On
the part of the man in bed there was a moment's hesitation, but Gammon
had never refused a loan which it was in his power to grant. In a few
minutes he fulfilled his promise to Mrs. Bubb, seeing Greenacre safely
out of the house, and making fast the front door again; then he turned
in and slept soundly till seven o'clock.

All went well in the morning. The sun shone and there was a pleasant
north-west breeze; in high spirits Gammon mounted the big but light
van, which seemed to shout in its brilliancy of red and blue paint.

It was some time since he had had the pleasure of driving a pair.
Greenacre had not overpraised the cobs; their start promised an
enjoyable day. He was not troubled by any sense of indignity unfailing
humour and a vast variety of experience preserved him from such
thoughts. As always, he threw himself into the business of the moment
with conscientious gusto; he had "Saponaria" at heart, and was as
anxious to advertise the new washing powder as if the profits were all
his own. At one spot where a little crowd chanced to gather about the
van he delivered an address, a fervid eulogy of "Saponaria," declaring
his conviction (based on private correspondence) that in a week or two
it would be exclusively used in all the laundries of the Royal Family.

At one shop where he was instructed to call he found a little trap
waiting, and as he entered there came out a man whom he knew by sight,
evidently a traveller, who mounted the trap and drove off. The
shopkeeper was in a very disagreeable mood and returned Gammon's
greeting roughly.

"Something wrong?" asked Gammon with his wonted cheeriness.

"Saw that chap in the white 'at? I've just told him str'ight that if he
comes into this shop again I'll kick 'im. I told him str'ight--see?"

"Did you? I like to hear a man talk like that. It shows there's
something in him. Who is the fellow? I seem to remember him somehow."

"Quodlings' traveller. And he's lost them my orders. And I shall write
and tell 'em so. I never did like that chap; but when he comes in 'ere,
with his white 'at, telling me how to manage my own business, and
larfin', yis larfin', why, I've done with him. And I told him
str'ight," etc.

"Quodlings', eh?" said Gammon reflectively. "They're likely to be
wanting a new traveller, I should say."

"They will if they take my advice," replied the shopkeeper. "And that I
shall give 'em, 'ot and strong."

As he drove on Gammon mused over this incident. The oil and colour
business was not one of his "specialities," but he knew a good deal
about it, and could easily learn what remained. The name of Quodling
interested him, being that of the man in the City who so strikingly
resembled Mr. Clover; who, moreover, was probably connected in some way
with the oil and colour firm. It might be well to keep an eye on
Quodlings'--a substantial concern, likely to give one a chance of the
"permanency" which was, on the whole, desirable.

He had a boy with him to hold the horses, a sharp lad, whose talk gave
him amusement when he was tired of thinking. They found a common
interest in dogs. Gammon invited the youngster to come and see his
"bows-wows" at Dulwich, and promised him his choice out of the litter
of bull terriers. With animation he discoursed upon the points of this
species of dog--the pure white coat; the long, lean, punishing head,
flat above; the breadth behind the ears, the strength of back. He
warned his young friend against the wiles of the "faker," who had been
known to pipeclay a mottled animal and deceive the amateur. Altogether
the day proved so refreshing that Gammon was sorry when its end drew
near.

Greenacre was late for his appointment at the stables; he came in a
suit of black, imperfectly fitting, and a chimney-pot hat some years
old, looking very much like an undertaker's man. His appearance seemed
to prove that he really had attended a funeral, which renewed Gammon's
wonder. As a matter of course they repaired to the nearest eating-house
to have a meal together--an eating-house of the old fashion, known also
as a coffee-shop, which Gammon greatly preferred to any kind of
restaurant. There, on the narrow seats with high wooden backs, as
uncomfortable a sitting as could be desired, with food before him of
worse quality and worse cooked than any but English-speaking mortals
would endure, he always felt at home, and was pleasantly reminded of
the days of his youth, when a supper of eggs and bacon at some such
resort rewarded him for a long week's toil and pinching. Sweet to him
were the rancid odours, delightfully familiar the dirty knives, the
twisted forks, the battered teaspoons, not unwelcome the day's
newspaper, splashed with brown coffee and spots of grease. He often
lamented that this kind of establishment was growing rare, passing away
with so many other features of old London.

More fastidious, Greenacre could have wished his egg some six months
fresher, and his drink less obviously a concoction of rinsings. But he
was a guest, and his breeding did not allow him to complain. Of the
funeral he shrank from speaking; but the few words he dropped were such
as would have befitted 'a genuine grief. Gammon even heard him murmur,
unconsciously, "poor Bolsover."

Having eaten they wended their way to a little public-house, with a
parlour known only to the favoured few, where Greenacre, after a glass
or two of rum--a choice for which he thought it necessary to
apologize--began to discourse upon a topic peculiarly his own.

"I couldn't help thinking to-day, Gammon, what a strange assembly there
would be if all a man's relatives came to his funeral. Nearly all of us
must have such lots of distant connexions that we know nothing about.
Now a man like Bolsover--an aristocrat, with fifty or more acknowledged
relatives in good position--think how many more there must be in
out-of-the-way places, poor and unknown. Ay, and some of them not so
very distant kinsfolk either. Think of the hosts of illegitimate
children, for instance--some who know who they are, and some who don't."

This was said so significantly that Gammon wondered whether it had a
personal application.

"It's a theory of mine," pursued the other, his prominent eyes fixed on
some far vision, "that every one of us, however poor, has some wealthy
relative, if he could only be found. I mean a relative within
reasonable limits, not a cousin fifty times removed. That's one of the
charms of London to me. A little old man used to cobble my boots for me
a few years ago in Ball's Pond Road, He had an idea that one of his
brothers, who went out to New Zealand and was no more heard of, had
made a great fortune; said he'd dreamt about it again and again, and
couldn't get rid of the fancy. Well, now, the house in which he lived
took fire, and the poor old chap was burnt in his bed, and so his name
got into the newspapers. A day or two after I heard that his
brother--the one he spoke of--had been living for some years scarcely a
mile away at Stoke Newington--a man rolling in money, a director of the
British and Colonial Bank."

"Rummy go!" remarked Gammon.

"When I was a lad," pursued the other, after sipping at his refilled
glass, "I lived just by an old church in the City, and I knew the
verger, and he used to let me look over the registers. I think that's
what gave me my turn for genealogy. I believe there are fellows who get
a living by hunting up pedigrees; that would just suit me, if I only
knew how to start in the business."

Gammon looked up and asked abruptly.

"Know anybody called Quodling?"

"Quodling? No one personally. But there's a firm of Quodling,
brushmakers or something."

"Oil and colourmen?"

"Yes, to be sure. Quodling? Now I come to think of it--why do you ask?"

"There's a man in the City called Quodling, a silk broker. For private
reasons I should like to know something about him."

Greenacre gazed absently at his friend, like one who tries to piece
together old memories.

"Lost it," he muttered at length in a discontented tone. "Something
about a Mrs. Quodling and a lawsuit--big lawsuit that used to be talked
about when I was a boy. My father was a lawyer, you know."

"Was he? It's the first time you ever told me," replied Gammon with a
chuckle.

"Nonsense! I must have mentioned it many a time. I've often noticed,
Gammon, how very defective your memory is. You should use a mnemonic
system. I made a splendid one some years ago; it helped me immensely."

"I could have felt sure," said Gammon, "that you told me once your
father was a coal merchant."

"Why, so he was--later on. Am I to understand, Gammon, that you accuse
me of distorting facts?"

With the end of his third tumbler there had come upon Greenacre a
tendency to maudlin dignity and sensitiveness; he laid a hand on his
friend's arm and looked at him with pained reproach.

"Gammon! I was never inclined to mendacity, though I confess to
mendicity I have occasionally fallen. To you, Gammon, I could not lie;
I respect you, I admire you, in spite of the great distance between us
in education and habits of mind. If I thought you accused me of
falsehood, my dear Gammon, it would distress me deeply. Assure me that
you don't. I am easily put out to-day. The death of poor Bolsover--my
friend before he succeeded to the title. And that reminds me. But for a
mere accident I might myself at this moment have borne a title. My
mother, before her marriage, refused the offer of a man who rose to
wealth and honours, and only a year or two ago died a baronet. Well,
well, the chances of life the accidents of birth!"

He shook his head for some minutes, murmuring inarticulate regrets.

"I think I'll just have one more, Gammon."

"I think not, old boy. Where did you say you lived?"

"Oh, that's all right. Most comfortable lodgings in the parish of St.
Martin's-in-the-Fields. If you have the slightest doubt of my veracity,
leave me, Gammon; I beg you will leave me. I--in fact, I have an
appointment with a gentleman I met at poor Bolsover's funeral."

With no little difficulty Gammon led him away, and by means of an
omnibus landed him at length near St. Martin's Church. No entreaty
could induce the man to give his address. He protested that a few
minutes' walk would bring him home, and as he seemed to have sobered
sufficiently, Gammon left him sitting on the church steps--a strange
object in his borrowed suit of mourning and his antiquated top hat.




CHAPTER VI

THE HEAD WAITER AT CHAFFEY'S


Polly Sparkes had a father. That Mr. Sparkes still lived was not known
to the outer circles of Polly's acquaintance; she never spoke of her
family, and it was not easy to think of Polly in the filial relation.
For some years she had lived in complete independence, now and then
exchanging a letter with her parent, but seeing him rarely. Not that
they were on ill terms, unpleasantness of that kind had been avoided by
their satisfaction in living apart. Polly sometimes wished she had a
father "to be proud of"--a sufficiently intelligible phrase on Polly's
lips; but for the rest she thought of him with tolerance as a good,
silly sort of man, who "couldn't help himself"--that is to say, could
not help being what he was.

And Mr. Sparkes was a waiter, had been a waiter for some thirty years,
and would probably pursue the calling as long as he was fit for it. In
this fact he saw nothing to be ashamed of. It had never occurred to him
that anyone could or should be ashamed of the position; nevertheless,
Mr. Sparkes was a disappointed, even an embittered, man; and that for a
subtle reason, which did credit to his sensibility.

All his life he had been employed at Chaffey's. As a boy of ten he
joined Chaffey's in the capacity of plate washer; zeal and conduct
promoted him, and seniority made him at length head waiter. In those
days Chaffey's was an eating-house of the old kind, one long room with
"boxes"; beef its staple dish, its drink a sound porter at twopence a
pint. How many thousand times had Mr. Sparkes shouted the order "One
ally-mode!" The chief, almost the only, variant was "One 'ot!" which
signified a cut from the boiled round, served of course with carrots
and potatoes, remarkable for their excellence. Midday dinner was the
only meal recognized at Chaffey's; from twelve to half-past two the
press of business kept everyone breathless and perspiring. Before and
after these hours little if anything was looked for, and at four
o'clock the establishment closed its doors.

But it came to pass that the proprietor of Chaffey's died, and the
business fell into the hands of a young man with new ideas. Within a
few months Chaffey's underwent a transformation; it was pulled down,
rebuilt, enlarged, beautified; nothing left of its old self but the
name. In place of the homely eating-house there stood a large hall,
painted and gilded and set about with mirrors, furnished with marble
tables and cane-bottomed chairs--to all appearances a restaurant on the
France-Italian pattern. Yet Chaffey's remained English, flagrantly
English, in its viands and its waiters. The new proprietor aimed at
combining foreign glitter with the prices and the entertainment
acceptable to a public of small means. Moreover, he prospered. The
doors were now open from nine o'clock in the morning to twelve at
night. There was a bar for the supply of alcoholic drinks--the
traditional porter had always been fetched from a neighbouring
house--and frivolities such as tea and coffee were in constant demand.

This change told grievously upon Mr. Sparkes. At the first mention of
it he determined to resign but the weakness in his character shrank
from such a decided step, and he allowed himself to be drawn into a
painfully false position. The proprietor did not wish to lose him. Mr.
Sparkes was a slim, upright, grave-featured man, whose deportment had
its market value; his side-whiskers and shaven lip gave him a decidedly
clerical aspect, which, together with long experience and a certain
austerity of command, well fitted him for superintending the younger
waiters. His salary was increased, his "tips" represented a much larger
income than heretofore. At the old Chaffey's every diner gave him a
penny, whilst at the new he often received twopence, and customers were
much more numerous. But every copper he pouched cost Mr. Sparkes a pang
of humiliation; his "Thank you, sir," had the urbanity which had become
mechanical, but more often than not he sneered inwardly, despising
himself and those upon whom he waited.

To one person alone did he exhibit all the bitterness of his feelings,
and that was Mrs. Clover, the sister of his deceased wife. With her he
occasionally spent a Sunday evening in the parlour behind the china
shop, and there would speak the thoughts that oppressed him.

"It isn't that I've any quarrel with the foreign rest'rants, Louisa.
They're all right in their way. They suit a certain public, and they
charge certain prices. But what I do think is mean and low--mean and
low--is to be neither one thing nor the other; to make a sort of show
as if you was 'igh-clawss, and then have it known as you're the
cheapest of the cheap. Potatoes! That I should live to see Chaffey's
'anding out such potatoes! They're more like food for pigs, and I've
known the day when Chaffey's 'ud have thrown 'em at the 'ead of anybody
as delivered 'em such offal. It isn't a place for a self-respecting
man, and I feel it more and more. If a shop-boy wants to take out his
sweetheart and make a pretence of doing it grand, where does he go to?
Why, to Chaffey's. He couldn't afford a real rest'rant; but Chaffey's
looks the same, and Chaffey's is cheap. To hear 'em ordering roast fowl
and Camumbeer cheese to follow--it fair sickens me. Roast fowl! a old
'en as wouldn't be good enough for a real rest'rant to make inter soup!
And the Camumbeer! I've got my private idea, Louisa, about what that
Camumbeer is made of. And when I think of the Cheshire and the Cheddar
we used to top up with! It's 'art-breaking."

From a speaker with such a countenance all this was very impressive.
Mrs. Clover shook her head and wondered what England was coming to. In
return she would tell of the people who came to her shop to hire cups
and saucers just to make a show when they had a friend to tea with
them. There was much of the right spirit in both these persons, for
they sincerely despised shams, though they were not above profiting by
the snobberies of others. But Mrs. Clover found amusement in the state
of things, whereas Mr. Sparkes grew more despondent the more he talked,
and always added with a doleful self-reproach:

"If I'd been half a man I should have left. They'd have taken me on at
Simpkin's, I know they would, or at the Old City Chop House, if I'd
waited for a vacancy. Who'd take me on now? Why, they'd throw it in my
face that I came from Chaffey's, and I shouldn't have half a word to
say for myself."

It was very seldom that he received a written invitation from his
sister-in-law, but he heard from her in these hot days of June that she
particularly wished to see him as soon as possible. The message he
thought, must have some reference to Mrs. Clover's husband, whose
reappearance at any moment would have been no great surprise, even
after an absence of six years. Mr. Sparkes had a strong objection to
mysterious persons; he was all for peace and comfort in a familiar
routine, and for his own part had often hoped that the man Clover was
by this time dead and buried. Responding as soon as possible to Mrs.
Clover's summons, he found that she wished to speak to him about his
daughter. Mrs. Clover showed herself seriously disturbed by Polly's
recent behaviour; she told of the newly-acquired jewellery, of the
dresses in which Miss Sparkes went "flaunting," of the girl's scornful
refusal to answer natural inquiries.

"The long and the short of it is, Ebenezer, you ought to see her, and
find out what's going on. There may be nothing wrong, and I don't say
there is; but that watch and chain of hers wasn't bought under twenty
pounds--that I'll answer for, and it's a very queer thing, to say the
least of it. What business was it of mine, she asked. I shouldn't
wonder if she says the same to you; but it's your plain duty to have a
talk with her, don't you think so now?"

To have a talk with Polly, especially on such a subject, was no easy or
pleasant undertaking for Mr. Sparkes, who had so long resigned all
semblance of parental authority. But as a conscientious man he could
not stand aside when his only surviving daughter seemed in peril. After
an exchange of post cards a meeting took place between them on the
Embankment below Waterloo Bridge, for neither father nor child had
anything in the nature of a home beyond the indispensable bedroom, and
their only chance of privacy was in the open air. Having no desire to
quarrel with her parent (it would have been so very one-sided and
uninspiriting) Polly began in a conciliatory tone.

"Aunt Louisa's been making a bother, has she? Just like her. Don't you
listen to her fussicking, dad. What's all the row about? I've had a
present given to me; well, what of that? You can look at it for
yourself. I can't tell you who give it me, 'cos I've promised I
wouldn't; but you'll know some day, and then you'll larff. It ain't
nothing to fret your gizzard about; so there. I'm old enough to look
after myself, and if I ain't I never shall be; so there."

This did not satisfy Mr. Sparkes. He saw that the watch and chain were
certainly valuable, and he could not imagine how the girl had become
honourably possessed of them, save as the gift of an admirer; but the
mere fact of such an admirer's exacting secrecy implied a situation of
danger.

"I don't like the look of it, Polly," he remarked; with a nervous
attempt to be severe.

"All right, dad; then don't like the look of it. The watch is good
enough for me."

It took Mr. Sparkes two or three minutes to understand this joke.
Whilst he was reflecting upon it a thought suddenly passed through his
mind, which startled him by its suggestiveness.

"Polly!"

"Well?"

"It ain't your Uncle Clover, is it?"

The girl laughed loudly as if at a preposterous question.

"Him? Why, I've as good as forgot there was such a man! What do you
mean? Why, I shouldn't know him if I saw him. What made you think of
that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Who knows when and where he may turn up, or what
he'll do?"

"That's a good 'un! My Uncle Clover indeed! Whatever put that into your
'ead?"

Her ejaculations of wonder and disdain continued until the close of the
interview, and Mr. Sparkes went his way, convinced that Polly was being
pursued by some wealthy man, probably quite unprincipled--the kind of
man who frequents "proper rest'rants" and sits in the stalls at
"theaytres," where, doubtless, Polly had made his acquaintance. After
brooding a day or two on this idea he procured a sheet of the cheapest
note-paper and sat down in his bedroom, high up at Chaffey's, to
compose a letter for his daughter's behoof.


"DEAR POLLY,

"I write you these few lines to say that the more I think about you and
your way of carrying on the less I like the look of it, and the sooner
I make that plain to you the better for both of us, and I'm sure you'll
think the same. You are that strong-headed, my girl; but listen to the
warnings of experience, who have seen a great deal of the wicked world,
and cannot hope to see much more of it at my present age. There will
come a day when you will wish that you could hear of me by a note to
Chaffey's, but such will not be. Before it's too late I take up the pen
to say these few words, which is this: I have always been a respectable
and a saving man, which I hope to be until I am no more. What I mean to
say is this, Chaffey's is not what it used to be. But I have laid by,
and when it comes to the solemn hour then Mr. Walker has promised to
make my will. All I want to say is that there may be more than you
think for and if you are respectable I think it most likely all will be
yours. But listen to this, if you disgrace yourself, my girl, not one
halfpenny nor yet one sixpenny piece will you receive from

"Your affectionate father

"EBENEZER SPARKES

"P.S.--This is wrote in a very serious mind."


This epistle at once pleased and angered Polly. Though a greedy she was
not a mercenary young woman; she had little cunning, and her vulgar
ambitions were consistent with a good deal of honest feeling. To do her
justice, she had never considered the possibility that her father might
have money to bequeath; his disclosure surprised her, and caused her to
reflect for the first time that Chaffey's head waiter had long held a
tolerably lucrative position, whilst his expenses must have been
trivial; so much the better for her. On the other hand, she strongly
resented his suspicions and warnings. In the muddled obscurity of
Polly's consciousness there was a something which stood for womanly
pride. She knew very well what dangers perpetually surrounded her, and
she contrasted herself with the girls who weakly, or recklessly, threw
themselves away. Divided thus between injury and gratitude she speedily
answered her father's letter, writing upon a sheet of scented
grass-green note-paper, deeply ribbed, which made her pen blot,
splutter, and sprawl far more than it would have done on a smooth
surface.


"DEAR DAD,

"In reply to yours, what I have to say is, Aunt Louisa and Mrs. Bubb
are nasty cats, and I don't think them for making a bother. It is very
kind of you about your will, though I'm sure, if you believe me, I
don't want not yet to see you in your grave; and what I do think is,
you might have a better opinion of your daughter and not think all the
bad things you can turn your mind to. And if it is me that dies first,
you will be sorry for the wrong you done me. So I will say no more,
dear dad.

"From your loving

"POLLY"




CHAPTER VII

POLLY'S WRATH


Polly posted her letter on the way to the theatre. This evening she had
a private engagement for ten o'clock, and on setting forth to the
appointed place she looked carefully about her to make sure that no one
watched or followed her. Christopher Parish was not the only young man
who had a habit of standing to wait for her at the theatre door. Upon
him she could lay her commands with some assurance that they would be
observed, but others were less submissive, and at times had given her
trouble. To be sure, she could always get rid of importunate persons by
the use of her special gift, that primitive sarcasm which few cared to
face for more than a minute or two; but with admirers Polly wished to
be as far as possible gracious, never coming to extremities with one of
them until she was quite certain that she thoroughly disliked him.
Finding the coast clear (which after all slightly disappointed her) she
walked sharply into another street, where she hailed a passing hansom,
and was driven to Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Here, on the quiet pavement shadowed by the College of Surgeons, she
lingered in expectancy. Ten was striking, but she looked in vain for
the figure she would recognize--that of a well-dressed, middle-aged
man, with a white silk comforter about his neck, and drawn up so as to
hide his mouth. Twice she had met him here, and on each occasion he was
waiting for her when she arrived. Five minutes passed--ten minutes. She
grew very impatient and, as a necessary consequence, very angry. To
avoid unpleasant attention from the few people who walked by, she had
to pace backwards and forwards as if going about her business. When the
clocks chimed the first quarter Polly was in a turmoil of anger,
blended with disappointment and apprehension. She could not have made a
mistake. The message she had received was "W. S. T.," which meant
"Wednesday same time." Some accident must have interfered. At twenty
minutes past ten she had lost all hope. She must go home, and wait for
a possible communication on the morrow.

Swinging her skirts, clenching her fists, and talking silently at a
great rate, she walked in the direction of Chancery Lane. At a corner
someone going in the opposite direction caught sight of her and
stopped. Polly was so preoccupied that she would not have noticed the
figure had it merely passed; by stopping it drew her attention, and she
beheld Christopher Parish.

"Why, Miss Sparkes!"

He held out his hand, but to no purpose. Polly had her eyes fixed upon
him, and they flashed with hostility.

"What do you mean by it?"

"Mean by what?"

The young man was astonished; his hand dropped, and he trembled before
her.

"How dare you spy after me? Nasty little wretch!"

"Spy after you, Miss Sparkes? Why, I hadn't the least idea of anything
of the kind; I swear I hadn't! I was just taking a walk--"

"Oh, yes! Of course! You're always taking a walk, aren't you? And you
always come just this way 'cause it's nice and convenient for Lambeth
Road, ain't it? I've a good mind to call a p'liceman and give you in
charge for stopping me in the street!"

"Well, did ever anybody hear such a thing as this?" exclaimed Mr.
Parish, faint in voice and utterly at a loss for protestations at all
effective. "I tell you I was only taking a walk--that's to say, I've
been with a friend."

"A friend? Oh, yes, of course. What friend?"

"It's somebody you don't know; his name--"

"Oh, of course, I don't know him! And I don't know you either after
to-night, so just remember that, Mr. Parish. The idea! If I can't take
two steps without being followed and spied upon! And you call yourself
a gentleman. Get out of my way, please. If you want to follow and spy,
you're quite at liberty to do so. P'r'aps it'll ease your nasty little
mind. Don't talk to me! What business have you got to stop me in the
street, I'd like to know? If you're not careful I shall send a
complaint to your employers, and then you'll have plenty of time to go
taking walks."

She turned from him and pursued her way, but not so quickly as before.
Christopher, limp with misery, tried to move off in another direction,
but in spite of himself he was drawn after her. By Chancery Lane and
along the Strand he kept her in sight, often with difficulty, for he
durst not draw nearer than some twenty yards. At Charing Cross she
stopped, and by her movements showed that she was looking for an
omnibus. Parish longed to approach, quivered with the ever-recurrent
impulse, but his fear prevailed. In a more lucid state of mind he would
probably have remarked that Polly allowed a great many omnibuses to go
by, and that she was surely waiting much longer than she need have
done. But at length she jumped in and disappeared, whereupon Mr. Parish
spent all the money he had with him on a large brandy and soda, hoping
it would make him drunk.

The door of the house in Kennington Road stood open; in the passage Mr.
Gammon and Mr. Cheeseman were conversing genially. They nodded to
Polly, but did not speak. Passing them to the head of the kitchen
stairs she called to Mrs. Bubb, and that lady's voice summoned her to
descend.

"Are you alone?" asked Miss Sparkes sharply.

"There's only Mrs. Cheeseman."

Polly went down into the kitchen, where Mrs. Cheeseman, a stout woman
of slatternly appearance, was sitting with her legs crossed and a plate
of shrimps in her lap.

"Have a srimp, Polly?" began Mrs. Bubb, anxious to dismiss the memory
of recent discord.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bubb, if I have a fancy for srimps I can afford to buy
them for myself."

"Well, you _are_ nasty! Ain't she real obstropolous, Mrs. Cheeseman? I
never knew a nastier-tempered girl in all my life, that I never did.
There's actially no living with her."

"Now set down, Polly," urged the stout woman in an unctuous voice. "Set
down, do, an' tike things easy. You'll worrit your sweet self to death
before you're many years older if you go on like this."

"I'm much obliged to you, Mrs. Cheeseman," answered Polly, holding
herself very stiff; "but I didn't come here to set down, nor to talk
neither. But I'm glad you're here, because you'll be a witness to what
I say. I've come to give Mrs. Bubb a week's notice. She's often enough
told me that she wants to keep her house respectable, and I'm sure
she'll be glad to get rid of people as don't suit her. It's the first
time I was ever told that I disgraced a 'ouse, and I hope it'll be the
last time too. When I pay my rent to-morrow morning you'll please to
understand, Mrs. Bubb, that I've given a week's notice. I may be a
disgrace, but I dare say there's people as won't be ashamed to let me a
room. And that's what I came to say, and now I've said it, and Mrs.
Cheeseman is a witness."

This was spoken so rapidly that it left Polly breathless and with a
very high colour. The elder women looked at each other, and Mrs.
Cheeseman, with a shrimp in her mouth, resumed the attempt at
pacification.

"Now, see 'ere, Polly. You're a young gyell, my dear, and a 'andsome
gyell, as we all know, and you've only one fault, which there ain't no
need to mention it. And we're all fond of you, Polly, that's the fact.
Ain't we all fond of her, Mrs. Bubb?"

"Oh, yes, she's very fond of me!" exclaimed the girl. "And so is my
Aunt Louisa. And to show it they go telling everybody that I ain't
respectable, that I'm a disgrace to a decent 'ouse. D'you think I'll
stand it?" Of a sudden she changed from irony to fierceness. "What do
you mean by it, Mrs. Bubb? Did you never hear of people being
prosecuted for taking away people's characters? Just you mind what
you're about, Mrs. Bubb. I give you fair warning, and that's all I have
to say to you."

Having relieved her feelings with these and a few more verbal missiles,
Polly ran up the kitchen steps. In the passage the two men were still
conversing; at sight of Polly they stopped with an abruptness which did
not escape her observation. No doubt, she said to herself, they had
been talking about her. No doubt, too, they had their reasons for
letting her go by as before without a word. Only when she was half-way
up the first flight of stairs did Mr. Cheeseman call to her a
"Goodnight, Miss Sparkes," to which she made no reply whatever.

On the morrow she called at the little stationer's shop, but no letter
awaited her. She decided to be again at the rendezvous that evening,
lest there should have been some mistake in her cipher message; but she
lingered near the College of Surgeons in vain. Polly's heart sank as
she went home, for to-night there was no one to quarrel with. Mrs. Bubb
and all the lodgers had shown that they meant to hold aloof; not even
Moggie would look at her or speak a word. It was quite an unprecedented
state of things, and Polly found it disagreeable.

There was only one consolation, and that a poor one. She had received a
letter from Christopher Parish, a letter of abject remonstrance and
entreaty. He grovelled at her feet. He talked frantically of poison and
the river. If she would but meet him and hear him in his own defence!
And Polly quite meaning to do so, gave herself the pleasure of
appearing obdurate for a couple of days.

At the theatre she examined every row of spectators in stalls and
dress-circle, having he own reason for thinking that she might discover
certain face. But no such fortune befell her, and still no letter came.

At home she suffered increasing discomfort. For one thing she had to
seek her meals in the nearest coffee-shop instead of going down into
Mrs. Bubb's kitchen and gossiping as she ate at the family deal table,
amid the dirt and disorder which custom had made pleasant. When in the
house she locked herself in her bedroom, reading the kind of print that
interested her, or lying in sullen idleness on the bed. Numerous as
were her acquaintances elsewhere, they did not compensate her for the
loss of domestic habit, As the week drew on she bethought herself that
she must look for new lodgings. In giving notice to Mrs. Bubb she had
not believed for a moment that it would come to this she felt, sure
that her old friend would make up the quarrel and persuade her to stay.
Nothing of the kind; for once she was taken most literally at her word.
There were moments when Polly felt disposed to cry.

It vexed her much more than she would have thought to miss the jocose
greetings of her neigh hour Mr. Gammon. As usual he sang in his bedroom
of a morning, as usual be shouted orders and questions to Moggie, but
for her he had never a word. She listened for him as he came out of the
room, and once so far humbled herself as to affect a cough in his
bearing. Mr. Gammon paid no attention.

Then she raged at him--of course, _sotto voce_. Many were the phrases
of abuse softly hurled at him as he passed her door. The worst of it
was that none of them seemed really applicable; her vision of the man
defeated all such contumely. She had never disliked Mr. Gammon; oddly
enough, she seemed to think of him with a more decided friendliness now
that his conduct demanded her enmity. She asked herself whether he
really believed any harm of her. It looked very much as if he did, and
the thought sometimes kept her awake for fully a quarter of an hour.

It was the last day but one of her week. To-morrow she must either
submit to the degradation of begging Mrs. Bubb's leave to remain, or
pack her boxes and have them removed before nightfall. Worry had ended
by giving her a slight headache, a very rare thing indeed. Moreover, it
rained, and breakfast was only obtainable by walking some distance.

"Oh, the beasts!" Polly exclaimed to herself, as she pulled on her
boots, meaning the inhabitants of the house all together.

Mr. Gammon opened his door and shouted down the staircase.

"Moggie! Fry me three eggs this morning with the bacon--do you hear?"

Three eggs! Fried with bacon! And all comfortably set out at the end of
the kitchen table. And to think that she might be going down to
breakfast at the same time, with Mr. Gammon's jokes for a relish!

"Oh, the wretches! The mean, selfish brutes!"

She stamped about the floor to ease her nerves as she put on a common
hat and an old jacket. She unlocked her door with violence, banged it
open, and slammed it to again. From the staircase window she saw that
the rain was falling more heavily, and she could not wait, for she felt
hungry--after hearing about those three eggs. If she met anyone down
below!

And, as chance had it, she met Mrs. Cheeseman just coming up to her
room from the kitchen with a dish of sausages. The woman grinned and
turned her head away. Polly had never been so tempted to commit an
assault; she thought with a burning brain how effective would be one
smart stroke on the dish of sausages with the handle of her umbrella.

Still hot from this encounter in the passage she came face to face with
Mrs. Bubb. The landlady seemed to hesitate, but before Polly had gone
by she addressed her with exaggerated politeness.

"Good morning, Miss Sparkes. So I s'pose we're losing you to-morrow?"

"Yes, you are," Polly replied, from a parched throat, glaring at her
enemy.

"Oh, then I'll put the card up!"

"Do! I wouldn't lose no time about it. And listen to this, Mrs. Bubb.
Next time you see your friend Mrs. Clover, you may tell her that if she
wants to know where her precious 'usband is she's not to ask _me_, 'cos
I wouldn't let her know, not if she was on her death-bed!"

Having uttered this surprising message, with point and emphasis worthy
of its significance, Polly hastened from the house. And Mrs. Bubb stood
looking after her in bewilderment.




CHAPTER VIII

MR. GAMMON'S RESOLVE


Convinced that his life was blighted, Mr. Gammon sang and whistled with
more than usual vivacity as he dressed each morning. It was not in his
nature to despond; he had received many a knock-down blow, and always
came up fresher after it. Mrs. Clover's veto upon his tender hopes with
regard to Minnie had not only distressed, but greatly surprised him;
for during the last few months he had often said to himself that,
whether Minnie favoured his suit or not, her mother's goodwill was a
certainty. His advances had been of the most delicate, no word of
distinct wooing had passed his lips; but he thought of Minnie a great
deal, and came to the decision that in her the hopes of his life were
centred. It might be that Minnie had no inkling of his intentions; she
was so modest, so unlike the everyday girls who tittered and ogled with
every marriageable man; on that very account he had made her his ideal.
And Mrs. Clover would help him as a mother best knows how. The shock of
learning that Mrs. Clover would do no such thing utterly confused his
mind. He still longed for Minnie, yet seemed of a sudden hopelessly
remote from her. He could not determine whether he had given her up or
not; he did not know whether to bow before Mrs. Clover or to protest
and persevere. He liked Mrs. Clover far too much to be angry with her;
he respected Minnie far too much to annoy her by an unwelcome
courtship; he wished, in fact, that he had not made a fool of himself
that evening, and wanted things to be as they were before.

In the meantime he occupied himself in looking out for a new engagement
Plenty were to be had, but he aimed at something better than had
satisfied him hitherto. He must get a "permanency"; at his age it was
time he settled into a life of respect able routine. But for his
foolish habit of living from hand to mouth, now in this business, now
in that, indulging his taste for variety, Mrs. Clover would never, he
felt sure, have "put her foot down" in that astonishing way. The best
thing he could do was to show himself in a new light.

Thanks to his good nature, his practicality, and the multitude of his
acquaintances, all manner of shiftless or luckless fellows were in the
habit of looking to him for advice and help. As soon as they found
themselves adrift they turned to Gammon. Every day he had a letter
asking him to find a "berth" or a "billet" for some out-at-elbows
friend, and in a surprising number of cases he was able to make a
useful suggestion. It would have paid him to start an employment
agency; as it was, instead of receiving fees, he very often supplied
his friends' immediate necessities out of his own pocket. The more he
earned the more freely he bestowed, so that his occasional strokes of
luck in commerce were of no ultimate benefit to him. No man in his
Position had a larger credit; for weeks at a time he could live without
cash expenditure; but this was seldom necessary.

By a mental freak which was characteristic of him he nursed the thought
of connecting himself with Messrs. Quodling & Son, oil and colour
merchants. Theirs was a large and sound business, both in town and
country. It might not be easy to become traveller to such a firm, but
his ingenious mind tossed and turned the possibilities of the case, and
after a day or two spent in looking up likely men--which involved a
great deal of drinking in a great variety of public resorts--he came
across an elderly traveller who had represented Quodlings on a northern
circuit, and who boasted a certain acquaintance with Quodling the
senior. Thus were things set in train. At a second meeting with the
venerable bagman--who had a wonderful head for whisky--Gammon acquired
so much technical information that oil and colours might fairly be set
down among his numerous "specialities." Moreover, his friend promised
to speak a word for him in the right quarter when opportunity offered.

"By the way," Gammon remarked carelessly, "are these Quodlings any
relation to Quodling the silk broker in the City?"

His companion smiled over the rim of a deep tumbler, and continued to
smile through a long draught.

"Why do you ask?"

"No particular reason. Happen to know the other man--by sight."

"They're brothers--Quodling senior and the broker."

"What's the joke?" asked Gammon, as the other still smiled.

"Old joke--very old joke. The two men just as unlike as they could
be--in face, I mean. I never took the trouble to inquire about it, but
I've been told there was a lawsuit years ago, something to do with the
will of Lord somebody, who left money to old Mrs. Quodling--who wasn't
old then. Don't know the particulars, but I'm told that something
turned on the likeness of the younger boy to the man who made the
will--see!"

"Ah! Oh!" muttered Gammon reflectively.

"An uppish, high-notioned fellow, Quodling the broker. Won't have
anything to do with his brother. He's nothing much himself; went
through the court not very long ago."

Gammon promised himself to look into this story when he had time. That
it could in any way concern him he did not seriously suppose, but he
liked to track things out. Some day he would have another look at
Quodling the broker, who so strongly resembled Mrs. Clover's husband.
Both of them, it seemed, bore a likeness to some profligate aristocrat.
Just the kind of thing to interest that queer fish Greenacre.

In the height of the London season nothing pleased Gammon more than to
survey the streets from an omnibus. Being just now a man of leisure he
freely indulged himself, spending an hour or two each day in the
liveliest thoroughfares. It was a sure way of forgetting his cares.
Sometimes he took a box place and chatted with the driver, or he made
acquaintances, male and female, on the cosy cross seats just broad
enough for two. The London panorama under a sky of June feasted his
laughing eyes. Now he would wave a hand to a friend on the pavement or
borne past on another bus; now he would chuckle at a bit of comedy in
real life. Huge hotels and brilliant shops vividly impressed him,
though he saw them for the thousandth time; a new device in advertising
won his ungrudging admiration. Above all he liked to find himself in
the Strand at that hour of the day when east and west show a double
current of continuous traffic, tight wedged in the narrow street,
moving at a mere footpace, every horse's nose touching the back of the
next vehicle. The sun could not shine too hotly; it made colours
brighter, gave a new beauty to the glittering public-houses, where
names of cooling drinks seemed to cry aloud. He enjoyed a "block," and
was disappointed unless he saw the policeman at Wellington Street
holding up his hand whilst the cross traffic from north and south
rolled grandly through. It always reminded him of the Bible
story--Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea.

He was in the full enjoyment of this spectacle when an odour of cloves
breathed across his face, and a voice addressed him.

"Isn't that you, Mr. Gammon? Well, if I didn't think so!"

The speaker was a young woman, who, with a male companion, had just
mounted the bus and seated herself at Gammon's back. Facing round he
recognized her as a friend of Polly Sparkes, Miss Waghorn by name, who
adorned a refreshment bar at the theatre where Polly sold programmes.
With a marked display of interesting embarrassment Miss Waghorn
introduced him to her companion, Mr. Nibby, who showed himself cordial.

"I've often heard talk of you, Mr. Gammon; glad to meet you, sir. I
think it's Berlin wools, isn't it?"

"Well, it was, sir, but it's been fancy leather goods lately, and now
it's going to be something else. You are the Gillingwater burners, I
believe, sir?"

Mr. Nibby betrayed surprise.

"And may I ask you how you know that?"

"Oh, I've a good memory for faces. I travelled with you on the
Underground not very long ago, and saw the name on some samples you
had."

"Now, that's what I call smart observation, Carrie," said the
Gillingwater burners, beaming upon Miss Waghorn.

"Oh, we all know that Mr. Gammon's more than seven" replied the young
lady with a throaty laugh, and her joke was admirably received.

"Business good, sir?" asked Gammon.

"Not bad for the time of year, sir. Is it true, do you know, that
Milligan of Bishopsgate has burst up?"

"I heard so yesterday; not surprised; business very badly managed.
Great shame, too, for I know he got it very cheap, and there was a
fortune in it. Two years ago I could have bought the whole concern for
a couple of thousand."

"You don't say so!"

Mr. Gammon was often heard to remark that he could have bought this,
that, or the other thing for something paltry, such as a couple of
thousands. It was not idle boasting, such opportunities had indeed come
in his way, and, with his generous optimism, he was content to ignore
the fact that only the money was wanting.

"What's wrong with Polly Sparkes?" inquired the young lady presently,
again sending a waft of cloves into Gammon's face.

"That's what I want to know," he answered facetiously.

"She's awful cut up about something. I thought you was sure to know
what it was, Mr. Gammon. She says a lot of you has been using her
shimeful."

"Oh, she does, does she?"

"You should hear her talk! Now it's her landlydy--now it's her
awnt--now it's I don't know who. To hear her--she's been used shimeful.
She says she's been drove out of the 'ouse. I didn't think it of _you_,
Mr. Gammon."

At the moment the bus was drawing slowly near to a popular wine-shop.
Mr. Nibby whispered to Miss Waghorn, who dropped her eyes and looked
demure; whereupon he addressed Gammon.

"What do you say to a glass of dry sherry, sir?"

"Right you are, sir!"

So the omnibus was stopped to allow Miss Waghorn to alight, and all
three turned into the wine-shop. Dry sherry not being to Miss Waghorn's
taste she chose sweet port, drinking it as one to the manner born, and
talking the while in hoarse whispers, with now and then an outburst of
shrill laughter. The dark, narrow space before the counter or bar was
divided off with wooden partitions as at a pawnbroker's; each
compartment had a high stool for the luxuriously inclined, and along
the wall ran a bare wooden bench. Not easily could a less inviting
place of refreshment have been constructed; but no such thought
occurred to its frequenters, who at this hour were numerous. Squeezed
together in a stifling atmosphere of gas and alcohol, with nothing to
look at but the row of great barrels whence the wine was drawn, these
merry folk quenched their midsummer thirst and gave their wits a jog,
and drank good fellowship with merciless ill-usage of the Queen's
English. Miss Waghorn talked freely of Polly Sparkes, repeating all the
angry things that Polly had said, and persistingly wanting to know what
the "bother" was all about.

"It's for her own good," said Gammon with significant brevity.

He did not choose to say more or to ask any questions which might turn
to Polly's disadvantage. For his own part he seldom gave a thought to
the girl, and was far from imagining that she cared whether he kept on
friendly terms with her or not. At his landlady's suggestion he had
joined in the domestic plot for sending Polly to "Coventry"--a phrase,
by the by, which would hardly have been understood in Mrs. Bubb's
household; he argued that it might do her good, and that in any case
some such demonstration was called for by her outrageous temper. If
Polly could not get on with people who were sincerely her friends and
had always wished her well, let her go elsewhere and exercise her
ill-humour on strangers. Gammon did not believe that she would go; day
after day he expected to hear that the quarrel was made up, and that
Polly had cleared her reputation by a few plain words.

But this was the last day save one of Polly's week, and as yet she had
given no sign. On coming down into the kitchen to discuss his fried
eggs and bacon he saw at once that Mrs. Bubb was seriously perturbed;
with huffings and cuffings--a most unusual thing--she had just
despatched her children to school, and was now in conflict with Moggie
about a broken pie-dish, which the guilty general had concealed in the
back-yard. A prudent man in the face of such tempers, Gammon sat down
without speaking, and fell to on the viands which Mrs. Bubb--also
silent--set before him. In a minute or two, having got rid of Moggie
and closed the kitchen door, Mrs. Bubb came near and addressed him in a
subdued voice.

"What d'you think? It's her uncle! It's Clover!"

"Eh? What is?"

"Why, it's him as 'as been giving her things."

"Has she said so?" asked Gammon, with eager interest.

"I met her as she was coming down just now and she was in a tearin'
rage, and she says to me, she says, 'When you see my awnt,' she says,
'you tell her I know all about her 'usband, and that I wouldn't tell
_her_ anything not if she went down on her bended knees! There now!'"

The uneducated man may perchance repeat with exactness something that
has been said to him, or in his hearing; for the uneducated woman such
accuracy is impossible. Mrs. Bubb meant to be strictly truthful, but in
the nature of things she would have gone astray, even had Polly's
message taken a much simpler form than wrathful sarcasm gave to it.
However, she conveyed the spirit of Polly's words, and Gammon was so
excited by the report that he sprang up, overturning his cup of coffee.

"Oh, cuss it! Never mind; most's gone on to my trousers. She said that?
And to think we never thought of it! Where is she? When'll she be back?"

"I don't know. But she says she's going to leave to-morrow, and looks
as if she meant it, too. Hadn't I better send to Mrs. Clover?"

Gammon reflected.

"I tell you what, send and ask her to come here to-night; say it's very
important. We'll have them face to face--by jorrocks, we will!"

"Polly mayn't be 'ome before half-past ten or eleven."

"Never mind. I tell you we'll have them face to face. If it comes to
that I'll pay for a cab for Mrs. Clover to go home in. Tell her to be
here at eight. Stop. You mustn't have the trouble; I can very well go
round myself. Yes, I'll go myself and arrange it."

"It may be a lie," remarked Mrs. Bubb.

"So it may be, but somehow I don't think so. The rummiest thing that
that never came into my head! I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Clover
ain't living in Belgrave Square, or some such place. Just the kind of
thing that happens with these mysterious johnnies. She'll have come
across him somewhere, and he's bribed her to keep it dark--see? What a
gooseberry I was never to think of it! We'll have 'em face to face!"

"Suppose Polly won't?"

"Won't? Gosh, but she _shall_! If I have to carry her downstairs, she
shall! Think we're going to let her keep a thing like this to herself?
You just wait and see. Leave it to me, that's all. Lucky there's only
friends in the house. Polly, likes a row, and, by jorrocks, she shall
have one!"




CHAPTER IX

POLLY'S DEFIANCE


Content with her four lodgers, Mrs. Bubb reserved the rooms on the
ground floor for her own use. In that at the back she slept with the
two younger children; the other two had a little bed in the front room,
which during the daytime served as a parlour. On occasions of
ceremony--when the parlour was needed in the evening--the children
slept in a bare attic next to that occupied by Moggie; and this they
looked upon as a treat, for it removed them from their mother's
observation, and gave opportunities for all sorts of adventurous pranks.

Thus were things arranged for to-night. Mrs. Bubb swept and garnished
her parlour for the becoming reception of a visitor whom she could not
but "look up to." Mrs. Clover's origin was as humble as her own, and
her education not much better, but natural gifts and worldly
circumstances had set a distance between them. Partly, perhaps, because
she was the widow of a police constable Mrs. Bubb gave all due weight
to social distinctions; she knew her "place," and was incapable of
presuming. With Polly Sparkes she did not hesitate to use freedom, for
Polly could not pretend to be on a social level with her aunt, and as a
young girl of unformed character naturally owed deference to an
experienced matron who took a kindly interest in her.

There had been some question of inviting Mr. Sparkes, but Mr. Gammon
spoke against it. No; let Polly have a fair chance, first of all, of
unbosoming herself before her aunt and her landlady. If she refused to
do so, why then other steps must be taken.

Gammon passed the day in high spirits, which, with the aid of
seasonable beverages, tended to hilarious excitement. The thing was
going to be as good as a play. In his short dialogue with Mrs. Clover
he withheld from her the moving facts of the case, telling her only
that her niece was going to quit Mrs. Bubb's, and that it behoved her
to assist in a final appeal to the girl's better feelings. His own part
in the affair was merely, he explained, that of a messenger, sent to
urge the invitation. Mrs. Clover willingly consented to come. Not a
word passed between them with reference to their last conversation, but
Mr. Gammon made it plain that he nursed no resentment, and the lady of
the china shop behaved very amicably indeed.

At six o'clock Polly came home to dress for the theatre. She left
again, having spoken to no one. Soon afterwards Gammon, who in fact had
watched for her departure, entered the house and held a conversation
with Mrs. Bubb in the parlour, where already the table was laid for
supper at half-past eight. Scarcely had eight struck when Mrs. Clover,
who had alighted from an omnibus, sounded her pleasant
rat-tat--self-respecting, and such as did credit to the house, but with
no suggestion of arrogance. As her habit was she kissed Mrs. Bubb--a
very kindly and gracious thing to do. She asked after the children, and
was sorry she could not see them. In her attire Mrs. Clover preserved
the same happy medium as in her way of plying the knocker; it was
sufficiently elaborate to show consideration for her hostess, yet not
so grand as to overwhelm by contrast. She looked, indeed, so pleasant,
and so fresh, and so young that it was as difficult to remember the
troubles of her life as it was to bear in mind that she had a daughter
seventeen years of age. Mr. Gammon, who made up a trio at the supper
table, put on his best behaviour. It might perhaps have been suspected
that he had quenched his thirst more often than was needful on a day of
showers and falling temperature, but at supper he drank only two
glasses of mild ale, and casually remarked, as he poured out the
second, that he had serious thoughts of becoming a total abstainer.

"You might do worse than that," said Mrs. Clover meaningly, but with
good nature.

"You think so? Say the word, Mrs. Clover, and I'll do it."

"I shan't say the word, because I know you couldn't live without a
glass of beer. There's no harm in that. But when--"

The remark was left incomplete.

"Hush!" came from Mrs. Bubb in the same moment. "Wasn't that the front
door?"

All listened. A heavy step was ascending the stairs.

"Only Mr. Cheeseman," said the landlady with a sigh of agitation. "Of
course it couldn't be Polly yet."

Not till the repast was comfortably despatched did Mr. Gammon give a
sign that it might now be well to inform Mrs. Clover of what had
happened. He nodded gravely to Mrs. Bubb, who with unaffected
nervousness, causing her to ramble and stumble for many minutes in
mazes of circumlocution, at length conveyed the fact to her anxious
listener that Polly Sparkes had said something or other which implied a
knowledge of Mr. Clover's whereabouts. Committed to this central fact,
and urged by Mrs. Clover's growing impatience, the good woman came out
at length with her latest version of Polly's remarkable utterance.

"And what she said was this, Mrs. Clover. When next you goes
tale-telling to my awnt, she says--just as nasty as she could--when
next you goes making trouble with my Aunt Louisa, she says, you can
tell her, she says, that there's nobody but me knows where her 'usband
is, and what he's a-doin' of but I wouldn't let her know, she says, not
if it was to save her from death and burial in the workus! That's what
Polly said to me this very morning, and the words made that impression
on my mind that I shall never forget them to the last day of my life."

"Did you ever!" exclaimed or rather murmured Mrs. Clover, for she was
astonished and agitated. Her face lost its wholesome tone for a moment,
her hands moved as if to repel something, and at length she sat quite
still gazing at Mrs. Bubb.

"And don't you think it queer," put in Mr. Gammon, "that we never hit
on that?"

"I'm sure I should never have thought of such a thing," replied Mrs.
Clover heavily, despondently.

"And who knows," cried Mrs. Bubb, "whether it's true after all? Polly's
been that nasty, how if she's made it up just to spite us?"

Mrs. Clover nodded, and seemed to find relief.

"I shouldn't a bit wonder. How should Polly know about him? It seems to
me a most unlikely thing--the most unlikely thing I ever heard of. I
shall never believe it till she's proved her words. I won't believe
it--I can't believe it--never!"

Her voice rose on tremulous notes, her eyes wandered disdainfully. She
looked at Gammon and immediately looked away again. He, as though in
answer to an appeal, spoke with decision.

"What we're here for, Mrs. Clover, is to put Polly face to face with
you and so get the truth out of her. That we will do, cost what it may.
We're not going to have that girl making trouble and disturbance just
to please herself. I don't want to poke myself into other people's
business, and I'm sure you won't think I do."

"Of course not, Mr. Gammon. 'T ain't likely I should think so of you."

"You know me better. I was just going to say that I'm a man of
business, and perhaps I can help to clear up this job in a
business-like way. That's what I'm here for. If I didn't think I could
be of some use to you I should make myself scarce. What I propose is
this, Mrs. Clover. When Polly comes in--never mind how late it is, I'll
see you safe 'ome--let her get upstairs just as usual. Then you go up
to her door and you knock and you just say, 'Polly, it's me, and I want
a word with you; let me come in, please?' If she lets you in, all
right; have a talk and see what comes of it. If she won't let you in
just come down again and let us know, and then we'll think what's to be
done next."

This suggestion was approved, and time went on as the three discussed
the mystery from every point of view. At about ten o'clock Mrs. Bubb's
ear caught the sound of a latch-key at the front door. She started up;
her companions did the same. By opening the door of the parlour an inch
or two it was ascertained that a person had entered the house and gone
quickly upstairs. This could only be Polly, for Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman
were together in their sitting-room above, their voices audible from
time to time.

"Now then, Mrs. Clover," said Gammon, "up you go. Don't be nervous;
it's only Polly Sparkes, and she's more call to be afraid of you than
you of her."

"I should think so, indeed," assented Mrs. Bubb. "Don't give way, my
dear. Whativer you do, don't give way. I'm sure I feel for you. It's
fair crool, it is."

Mrs. Clover said nothing, and made a great effort to command herself.
Her friends escorted her to the foot of the stairs. Mr. and Mrs.
Cheeseman had their door ajar, knowing well what was in progress, for
the landlady had not been able to keep her counsel at such a dramatic
crisis; but fortunately Mrs. Clover was unaware of this. With light,
quick foot she mounted the flight of stairs and knocked softly at
Polly's door.

"Well? Who's that?" sounded in a careless voice.

"It's me, Polly--your Aunt Louisa. Will you let me come in?"

"What do you want?"

The tone of the inquiry was not encouraging, and Mrs. Clover delayed a
moment before she spoke again.

"I want to speak to you, Polly," she said at length, with firmness.
"You know what it's about. Let me come in, please."

"I've got nothing to say to you about anything," answered Polly, in a
tone of unmistakable decision. "You're only wasting your time, and the
sooner you go 'ome the better."

She spoke near to the door, and with her last word sharply turned the
key. Only just in time, for Mrs. Clover was that moment trying the
handle when she heard the excluding snap. Natural feeling so much
prevailed with her that she gave the door a shake, whereat her niece
laughed.

"You're a bad, wicked, deceitful girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Clover hotly. "I
don't believe a word you said, not a word! You're going to the bad as
fast as ever you can, and you know it, and you don't care, and I'm sure
I don't care! Somebody ought to box your ears soundly, miss. I wouldn't
have such a temper as yours not for untold money. And when you want a
friend, and haven't a penny in the world, don't come to me, because I
won't look at you, and won't own you. And remember that, miss!"

Again Polly laughed, this time in high notes of wrathful derision.
Before the sound had died away Mrs. Clover was at the foot of the
staircase, where Gammon and Mrs. Bubb awaited her.

"It's all a make-up," she declared vehemently. "I won't believe a word
of it. She's made fools of us--the nasty, ill-natured thing!"

Trembling with excitement she was obliged to sit down in the parlour,
whilst Mrs. Bubb hovered about her with indignant consolation. Gammon,
silent as yet, stood looking on. As he watched Mrs. Clover's
countenance his own underwent a change; there was a ruffling of the
brows, a working of the lips, and in his good-humoured blue eyes a
twinkling of half-amused, half-angry determination.

"Look here," he began, thrusting his hands into his side pockets.
"You've come all this way, Mrs. Clover, to see Polly, and see her you
shall."

"I don't want to, Mr. Gammon! I couldn't--"

"Now steady a bit--quiet--don't lose your head. Whether you want to see
her or not, I want you to, and what's more you shall see her. If
Polly's trying to make fools of us she shan't have all the fun; if
she's telling the truth she shall have a fair chance of proving it; if
she's lying we'll have a jolly good try to make her jolly well ashamed
of herself. See here, Mrs. Bubb, will you do as I ask you?"

"And what's that, Mr. Gammon?" asked the landlady, eager to show her
spirit.

"You go up to Polly's room, and you say this: 'Miss Sparkes,' you say,
'you've got to come downstairs and see your aunt. If you'll come, quite
well and good; if you won't, I just got to tell you that the lock on
your door is easy forced, and expense shan't stand in the way.' Now you
just go and say that."

Mrs. Bubb and Mrs. Clover exchanged glances. Both were plainly
impressed by this masculine suggestion, but they hesitated.

"I don't want to make an upset in the house," said Mrs. Clover. "There
isn't a word of truth in what she said; I feel sure of that, and it's
no use."

"If you ask me," Gammon interposed, "I'm not at all sure about that. It
seems to me just as likely as not that she has come across Mr.
Clover--just as likely as not."

Angry agitation again took hold of Polly's aunt, who was very easily
swayed by an opinion from Mr. Gammon. The landlady, too, gave willing
ear to his words.

"Do you mean," she asked, "that we should really break the door open?"

"I do; and what's more--I'll pay the damage. Go up, Mrs. Bubb, and just
say what I told you; and let's see how she takes it."

Mrs. Clover began a faint objection, but Mrs. Bubb did not heed it. Her
face set in the joy of battle, she turned from the room and ran
upstairs.




CHAPTER X

THE STORMING OF THE FORT


Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman squeezed together at their partly-open door,
were following the course of events with a delighted eagerness which
threatened to break all bounds of discretion. Their grinning faces
signalled to Mrs. Bubb as she went by, and she, no less animated, waved
a hand to them as if promising richer entertainment. The next minute
she was heard parleying with Miss Sparkes. Polly received her, as was
to be expected, with acrimonious defiance.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Mrs. Bubb! Go and clean up your dirty kitchen.
It'll take you all your time."

There needed but this to fire the landlady to extremities. Her answer
rang through the house. Dirty kitchen, indeed! And how many meals had
Miss Sparkes eaten there at cost price--aye, often for nothing at all!
And who was it as made most dirt, coming in at all hours of the day and
night from running about the streets?

"Very well, my lady! Are you going to turn that key or not? That's all
I want to know."

"I'll have pity on your ignorance," replied Polly, "and tell you more
than that. I'm going to bed, and going to try to get to sleep if
there's any chance of it in a 'ouse like this, which might be a 'sylum
for inebriates."

Mrs. Bubb laughed, the strangest laugh ever heard from her respectable
lips. Words were needless, and in a few seconds she panted before her
friends downstairs.

"She says she's a-goin' to bed. Of all the shimeless creatures! Called
me every nime she could turn her tongue to! And wouldn't open her door
not if the 'ouse was burning. Do you hear her?"

Mr. Gammon buttoned his coat from top to bottom, smoothed his moustache
and his side-whiskers, and had the air of a man who is in readiness for
stern duty.

"I want both of you to come up with me," he said quietly.

Mrs. Clover began to look alarmed, even embarrassed.

"But perhaps she's really gone to bed."

"All right, she shall have time," he nodded, laughing. "I want both of
you to come up to see fair play."

"But, Mr. Gammon, I shouldn't like--"

"Mrs. Clover, you've come here to see Polly, and you've a right to see
Polly, and by jorrocks you shall see Polly! Follow me upstairs. I've
said all that need be said; now to business."

They ascended; Gammon three steps at a stride, the others in a hurry
and a flutter. Light streamed from the Cheesemans' room; the
first-floor lodgers; incapable any longer of self-restraint, were out
on the landing. On the next floor it was dark, but Mr. Gammon saw a
gleam along the bottom of Polly's door. He knocked--the knock of a
policeman armed with a warrant.

"Miss Sparkes!"

"Oh, it's you this time, is it? Come just to say good night? You
needn't have put yourself out."

"Miss Sparkes, are you in your proper dress?"

"What d'you mean?" Polly answered resentfully. "You've been drinking
again, I suppose."

"Not at all, my dear. I asked you for a good and sufficient reason. I'm
going to break your door open, that's all, and I wish to give you fair
warning. Are you dressed or not?"

"Impudent wretch! What are you doing here? What business is it of
yours?"

"I'm the only strong man handy, that's all. Paid for the job, being out
of work just now."

Mrs. Bubb tittered; Mrs. Cheeseman, down below, choked audibly.

"Will you answer that question or not? Very good; I give you till I've
counted fifty, slow. When I say fifty, bang goes the bloomin' door."

Amid an awful silence, enveloped, as it were, by the dull rumbling of
vehicles without, Mr. Gammon's voice began counting. He expected to
hear Polly's key turn in the lock, so did Mrs. Bubb and Mrs. Clover.
But the key moved not.

"Forty-eight--forty-nine--fifty!"

Gammon drew back to give himself impetus, and rushed against the door.
With raised foot he struck it just by the handle, and the house seemed
to quiver. A second assault was successful; with crash and splintering
the lock yielded, the door flew open. At the far side of the room stood
Polly, but in no attitude of surrender; she held a clothes brush, and
as soon as the assailant showed himself flung it violently at his head.
Another missile would have followed, but Gammon was too quick; with a
red Indian yell of victory he crossed the floor at one bound and had
Polly in his arms.

"Look out, ladies!" he shouted. "See fair play!"

Mrs. Bubb vented her emotions in "Oh my!" and "Did you ever!" with
little screams of excitement verging on sheer laughter. It avenged her
delightfully to see Miss Sparkes gripped by the waist and hoisted for
removal. But Mrs. Clover was evidently possessed by very different
feelings. Drawing back, as if in alarm or shame, a glow on each cheek,
she uttered an involuntary cry of protest.

"No, Mr. Gammon, I can't have that!"

It was doubtful whether the champion heard, for he unmistakably had his
work set. Tooth and nail Polly contested every inch of ground. One
moment her little fists were pummelling Gammon in the face, the next
she tugged at his hair. Then again she scratched and kicked
simultaneously, her voice meanwhile screaming insult and menace, which
must have been audible in the neighbours' houses.

"Stop!" entreated Mrs. Clover. "Put her down at once!" she commanded.
"Do you hear me, Mr. Gammon?"

Whether he did or not, the bold bagman paid no heed. He had at length a
firmer grip of Polly with one of her arms imprisoned. He neared the
head of the stairs, the women falling back before him.

"Mind what you're up to," he was heard to shout good-humouredly as
ever. "If you trip me we shall both break our blessed necks."

"How dare you!" shrieked the voice of the captive, now growing hoarse.
"I'll give you in charge the minute I get downstairs! Ugly beast, I'll
give you all in charge!"

The descent began. But that Polly was slightly made, a man of Gammon's
physique would have found it impossible to carry her down the stairs;
as it was he soon began puffing and groaning. In spite of the risk
Polly still struggled--two stair-railings were wrenched away on the
first flight. Then appeared Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman, red and perspiring
with muffled laughter.

"You may laugh, you wretches!" Polly shrieked. "I'll give you all in
charge, see if I don't. You've all took part in an assault--see what
you'll get for it!"

After that she no longer resisted, except for an occasional kick on her
bearer's shins. They reached the ground floor; they tottered into the
parlour; close upon them followed Mrs. Bubb and Mrs. Clover. Set upon
her feet, Polly seemed for a moment about to rush to the window; a
second thought led her to the mirror over the mantelpiece, where,
fiercely eyeing the reflected group behind her, she made shift to
smooth her hair and arrange her dress. Gammon had sunk upon a chair and
was mopping his forehead. He had suffered far more than Polly in the
encounter, and looked indeed, with wild hair, scratched face, burst
collar, loose necktie, a startling object.

"Now, then!" the girl moved towards him, fists clenched, as if to renew
hostilities. "What d'you mean by this? Just you tell me what you mean
by it."

"As soon as I can get breath, my dear. I meant to bring you down to
speak to your aunt, and I've done it--see?"

"I'm ashamed of you, Mr. Gammon," exclaimed Mrs. Clover severely. "I
never thought you would go so far as this."

"Ashamed of him, are you?" shrieked the girl, turning furiously upon
her relative. "Be ashamed of yourself! What do you call yourself, eh? A
respectable woman? And you look on while your own niece is treated in
this way. Why, a costermonger's wife wouldn't disgrace herself so. No
wonder your 'usband run away from you!"

"Oh, this low, vulgar, horrid girl!" cried her aunt in a revulsion of
feeling. "How she can be any relative of mine I'm sure I don't know."

"Ugh! you nasty, ungrateful young woman, you!" chimed in Mrs. Bubb. "To
speak to your kind awnt like that, as has been taking your part when
I'm sure I wouldn't 'a done! I'd like to see you put on bread and water
till you owned up whether you've told lies or not."

Mrs. Clover was moved to the point of shedding tears, though her
handkerchief soon stopped the flow.

"Polly," she said, raising her voice above the hubbub, "you've treated
me that bad there's no words for it. But I can't believe you'll let me
go away like this, without knowing whether you've really seen Mr.
Clover or not. Just tell me, do."

"Oh, it's just tell you, is it! After you've had me knocked about and
insulted by a dirty rough like that Gammon--"

"You've heard me say I never thought he meant to behave so. I wouldn't
have had it for anything."

Whilst Mrs. Clover was speaking Gammon beckoned to the landlady, and
together they retreated from the room, closing the door behind them. On
the stairs stood Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman eager for the latest news of
the fray. At their invitation Mrs. Bubb and the hero of the evening
stepped up, and for a quarter of an hour Mrs. Clover was left alone
with her niece. Then the landlady's attention was called by a voice
from below.

"I must be going, Mrs. Bubb; I'll say good night."

Quickly Mrs. Bubb descended; she saw at a glance that Polly's wrath had
in no degree diminished, and that Mrs. Clover was no whit easier in
mind; but both had become silent. Merely saying that she would see her
hostess again before long, the lady of the china shop took a hurried
leave and quitted the house.

She had walked but a few yards when Mr. Gammon's voice sounded at her
shoulder.

"I'll see you part of the way home," he said genially.

"I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Gammon," was Mrs. Clover's reply, "but I
can find my own way."

"You'll let me see you into a 'bus, at all events."

"Please don't trouble; I'd much rather you didn't."

"Why?" asked Gammon bluntly.

"Because I had. I'll say good night."

She stood still looking him in the face with cold displeasure; only for
a moment though, as her eyes could not bear the honest look in his.

"Right you are," said Gammon with affected carelessness. "Just as you
like. I won't force my company on anyone."

Mrs. Clover made the movement which in women of her breeding signifies
a formal bow--hopelessly awkward, rigid, and self-conscious--and walked
rapidly away. The man, not a little crestfallen, swung round on his
heel.

"What's wrong now?" he asked himself. "It can t be about Minnie, for
she was all right till after supper. And why it should make her angry
because I lugged that cat Polly downstairs is more than I can
understand. Well, I shan't die of it."

On re-entering the house he found all quiet. Polly had returned to her
chamber, Mrs. Bubb was in the Cheesemans' room. He went down into the
kitchen, where the gas was burning, and sat till the landlady came down.

"I don't see as you did much good," was Mrs. Bubb's first remark, in
the tone which signifies reaction after excitement. "It weren't worth
breaking a door in, it seems to me."

Gammon hung his head.

"Didn't Polly tell her anything?"

"She stuck out she knew where the 'usband was, and that's all."

"How do you know?"

"Polly said so as she went upstairs, and 'oped her awnt 'ud sleep well
on it."

"H'm! I suppose that's why I couldn't get a word out of Mrs. Clover.
Have the door mended, Mrs. Bubb, and charge me with it. Got anything to
drink handy?"

"That I 'aven't, Mr. Gammon, except water."

Gammon looked at his watch.

"Why, it's only just half-past eleven. Hanged if I didn't think it was
past midnight! I must go round and get a drop of something."

When he came back from quenching his thirst the house was in darkness.
He strode the familiar ascent, and by Polly's door (barricaded inside
with the chest of drawers) hummed a mirthful strain. As he jumped into
bed the events of the evening all at once struck him in such a comical
light that he uttered a great guffaw, and for the next ten minutes he
lay under the bedclothes shaking with laughter.




CHAPTER XI

THE NOSE OF THE TREFOYLES


At noon next day a cab drove up to Mrs. Bubb's house; from it alighted
Miss Sparkes, who, with the help of the cabman, brought downstairs a
tin box, a wooden box, two bandboxes, and three newspaper bundles. With
no one did she exchange a word of farewell; the Cheesemans' were out,
the landlady and Moggie kept below stairs. So Polly turned her back
upon Kennington Road, and shook the dust thereof from her feet for ever.

Willingly she had accepted a proposal that she should share the room of
her friend Miss Waghorn, who was to be married in a month's time to Mr.
Nibby, and did not mind a little inconvenience. The room was on the
third floor of a house at the north end of Shaftesbury Avenue; it
measured twelve feet by fourteen. When Polly's bandboxes had been
thrust under the bed and her larger luggage built up in a corner, there
was nice standing room both for her and Miss Waghorn. The house
contained ten rooms in all, and its population (including seven
children) amounted to twenty-three. In this warm weather the atmosphere
within doors might occasionally be a trifle close, but Shaftesbury
Avenue is a fine broad street, and has great advantages of situation.

To Mr. Gammon's casual inquiry, Mrs. Bubb replied that she neither knew
nor cared whither Polly had betaken herself. Himself having no great
curiosity in the matter, and being much absorbed in his endeavour to
obtain an engagement with the house of Quodling, he let Polly slip from
his mind for a few days, until one morning came a letter from her.
Positively, and to his vast surprise, a letter addressed to him by Miss
Sparkes, with her abode fully indicated in the usual place. True, the
style of the epistle was informal. It began:


"You took advantage of me because there wasn't a man in the house to
take my part, as I don't call that grinning monkey of a Cheeseman a man
at all. If you like to call where I am now, I shall have the pleasure
of introducing you to somebody that will give you the good hiding you
deserve for being a coward and a brute.

"Miss SPARKES"


Gammon laughed over this for half an hour. He showed it to Mrs. Bubb,
who was again on the old terms with him, and Mrs. Bubb wanted to
exhibit it to Mrs. Cheeseman.

"No, don't do that," he interposed gently. "We'll keep it between
ourselves."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. The girl can't help herself; she was born that way,
you know."

"I only hope she won't pay some rough to follow you at night and bash
you," said Mrs. Bubb warningly.

"I don't think that. No, no; Polly's bark is worse than her bite any
day."

On the evening of that day, about ten o'clock, he chanced to be in
Oxford Street, and as he turned southward it occurred to him that he
would so far act upon Polly's invitation as to walk down the Avenue and
glance at the house where she lived. He did so, and it surprised him to
see that she had taken up her abode in so mean-looking a place; he was
not aware, of course, that. Miss Waghorn found the quarters good enough
for her own more imposing charms and not less brilliant wardrobe.

Walking on, at Cambridge Circus he came face to face with Miss Sparkes
herself, accompanied by Miss Waghorn. To his hat salute and amiable
smile Polly replied with a fierce averting of the look. Her friend
nodded cheerfully, and they passed. Two minutes after he found Miss
Waghorn beside him.

"Hallo! Left Polly?"

"I want you to come back with me, Mr. Gammon," replied the maiden
archly. "I 'ear you've offended Miss Sparkes. I don't know what it is,
I'm sure, and I don't ask to be told, 'cause it's none of my business;
but I want to make you friends again, and I'm sure you'll apologize to
her."

"Eh? Apologize? Why, of course I will; only too delighted."

"That's nice of you. I always said you were a nice man, ask Polly if I
didn't."

"The same to you, my dear, and many of 'em! Come along."

As if wholly unaware of what was happening Polly had proceeded
homewards, not so fast, however, but that the others overtook her with
ease before she reached the house.

"How do you do, Miss Sparkes?" began her enemy, not without diffidence
as she turned upon him. "I'm surprised to hear from Miss Waghorn that
something I've said or done has riled you, if I may use the expression.
I couldn't have meant it; I'm sure I 'umbly beg pardon."

Strange to say, by this imperfect expression of regret, Miss Sparkes
allowed herself to be mollified. Presenting a three-quarter countenance
with a forbearing smile, she answered in the formula of her class:

"Oh, I'm sure it's granted."

"There now, we're all friends again," said Carrie Waghorn. "Miss
Sparkes is living with me for the present, Mr. Gammon. There'll be
changes before long"--she looked about her with prudish
embarrassment--"but, of course, we shall be seeing you again. Do you
know the address, Mr. Gammon?"

She mentioned the number of the house, and carefully repeated it,
whilst Polly turned away as if the conversation did not interest her.
Thereupon Mr. Gammon bade them good night, and went his way, marvelling
that Polly Sparkes had all at once become so placable. Was it a
stratagem to throw him off his guard and bring him into the clutches of
some avenger one of these nights? One never knew what went on in the
minds of such young women as Polly.

Next morning he had another surprise, a letter from his friend
Greenacre, inviting him, with many phrases of studious politeness, to
dine that day at a great hotel, the hour eight o'clock, and begging him
to reply by telegram addressed to the same hotel. This puzzled Gammon,
yet less than it could have done at an earlier stage of their
acquaintance. He had abandoned the hope of explaining Greenacre's
mysterious circumstances, and the attempt to decide whether his stories
were worthy of belief or not. Half suspecting that he might be the
victim of a hoax he telegraphed an acceptance, and thought no more of
the matter until evening approached. Part of his day was spent in
helping a distracted shopkeeper on the verge of failure to obtain
indulgence from certain of his creditors he also secured a place as
errand boy for the son of a poor woman with whom he had lodged until
her house was burnt down one Bank Holiday; and he made a trip to
Hammersmith to give evidence at the police-court for a friend charged
with assaulting a policeman. Just before eight o'clock, after a hasty
wash and brush up at a public lavatory, he presented himself at the
great hotel, where, from a lounge in the smoking-room, Greenacre rose
to welcome him. Greenacre indubitably, but much better dressed than
Gammon had ever seen him, and with an air of lively graciousness which
was very impressive. The strange fellow offered not a word of
explanation, but chatted as though their meeting in such places as this
were an everyday occurrence.

"I have something interesting to tell you," he observed, when they were
seated in the brilliant dining-room, with olives, sardines, and the
like to toy with before the serious commencement of their meal. "You
remember--when was it? not long ago--asking me about a family named
Quodling?"

"Of course I do. It was only the other day at--"

"Ah, just so, yes," interposed Greenacre, suavely ignoring the
locality. "You know my weakness for looking up family histories. I
happened to be talking with my friend Beeching yesterday--Aldham
Beeching, you know, the Q.C.--and Quodling came into my head. I
mentioned the name. It was as I thought. I had, you know, a vague
recollection of Quodling as connected with a lawsuit when I was a boy.
Beeching could tell me all about it."

"Well, what was it?"

"Queer story. A Mrs. Quodling, a widow, or believed to be a widow, came
in for a large sum of money under the will of Lord Polperro, the second
baron--uncle, I am told, of his present lordship. This will was
contested by the family; a very complicated affair, Beeching tells me.
Mrs. Quodling, whose character was attacked, declared that she knew
Lord Polperro in an honourable way, and that he had taken a great
interest in her children--two young boys. Now these boys were produced
in court, then it was seen--excellent soup this--that they bore little
if any resemblance to each other; and at the same time it was made
evident, by exhibition of a portrait, that the younger boy had a face
with a strong likeness to the testator, and many witnesses declared the
same. Interesting, isn't it?"

"For the widow," remarked Gammon.

"Uncommonly awkward, though she gained her case for all that. Polperro,
it seems, had a shady reputation--heavy drinker, and so on. There were
strong characteristics--some peculiarity of the nose. The old chap used
to say that there was the nose of the Bourbons and the nose of the
Trefoyles, his family name."

"What name?"

"Trefoyle. Cornish, you know. Rum lot they always seem to have been.
Barony created by George III for some personal service. The first
Polperro is said to have lived a year or two as a gipsy, and at another
time as a highwayman. There's a portrait of him, Beeching tells me, in
somebody's history of Cornwall, showing to perfection the Trefoyle
nose."

"Same as Quodling's, then," exclaimed Gammon. "Quodling, the broker?"

"Precisely. I would suggest, my dear fellow, that you don't speak quite
so loud. Francis Quodling was the boy who so strongly resembled the
Lord Polperro of the lawsuit. Nose with high arch, and something queer
about the nostril."

"Yes! and hanged if it isn't just the same as--"

A deprecatory gesture from his friend stopped Gammon on the point of
uttering the name "Clover." Again he had sinned against the proprieties
by unduly raising his voice, and he subsided in confusion.

"You were going to say?" murmured the host politely.

"Oh, nothing. There's a man I know has just the same nose, that's all."

"That's very interesting. And considering the Polperro reputation, it
wouldn't surprise me to come across a good many such noses. You
remember my favourite speculation. It comes in very well here, doesn't
it? Is all this information of any service to you?"

"Much obliged to you for your trouble. I don't know that I can make any
use of it; but yes, it does give a sort of hint."

On reflection Gammon decided to keep the matter to himself. He had set
his mind on discovering Mrs. Clover's husband, and was all the more
determined to perform this feat since the recent events in Kennington
Road. Mrs. Clover had treated him unkindly; he would prove to her that
this had no effect upon his zeal in her service. Polly Sparkes was
making fun of him, and the laugh should yet be on his side. Greenacre,
with his mysterious connexions, might be of use, but must not be
allowed to run away with the credit of the discovery. As for these
stories about Lord Polperro, it might turn out that Clover was
illegitimately related to the noble family--no subject for boasting,
though possibly an explanation of his strange life. If Polly were
really in communication with him--"Ho, ho! Very good! Ha, ha!"

"What now?" asked Greenacre.

"Nothing! Queer fancy I had."

After dinner they smoked together for an hour, the host talking
incessantly, and for the most part in a vein of reminiscence. To hear
him one would have supposed that he had always lived in the society of
distinguished people; never a word referring to poverty or mean
employment fell from his lips.

"Poor Bolsover!" he remarked. "Did I tell you that I had a very kind
letter from his widow?"

"I haven't seen you since."

"Ah, no, to be sure. I wrote, or rather I left a card at the town
house. Charming letter in reply. The poor lady is still quite young.
She was a Thompson of Derbyshire. I never knew the family at all well."

Gammon mused, and it occurred to him in his knowledge of the world that
Greenacre's connexion with the house of Bolsover might be that of a
begging-letter writer. There might have been some slight acquaintance
in years gone by between this strange fellow and young Lord
Bolsover--subsequently made a source of profit. Perchance, Greenacre's
prosperity at this moment resulted from a skilful appeal to the widowed
lady.

Inclined to facetiousness by a blend of choice beverages, Gammon could
not resist a joke at the moment when he took leave.

"Been out with the 'Saponaria' van to-day?" he enquired innocently.

Greenacre looked steadily at him with eyes of gentle reproach.

"I'm afraid I don't understand that allusion," he replied gravely. "Is
it a current jest? I am not much in the way of hearing that kind of
thing. By the by, let me know if I can help you in any more
genealogies."

"I will. So long, old man."

And with a wink--an undeniable wink, an audacious wink--Mr. Gammon
sallied from the hotel.

Before going to bed he wrote a letter--a letter to Miss Sparkes. Would
she see him the day after to-morrow, Sunday, if he strolled along
Shaftesbury Avenue at ten a.m.? It would greatly delight him, and
perhaps she might be persuaded to take a little jaunt to Dulwich and
look at his bow-wows.




CHAPTER XII

POLLY CONDESCENDS


There was time enough for Polly to reply to this invitation, but reply
she did not. None the less, Gammon was walking about near her lodgings
at ten o'clock on Sunday morning. It seemed to him that he once or
twice perceived a face at an upper window, but at a quarter past the
hour Miss Sparkes had not come forth. He was on the point of going
boldly to the door when a recognizable figure approached--that of Mr.
Nibby. The men hailed each other.

"Waiting for somebody?" inquired the representative of the Gillingwater
burner, a twinkle in his eye.

To avoid the risk of complications Gammon avowed that he was looking
out for Miss Sparkes, with whom he wanted a word on private business.

"First rate!" exclaimed Mr. Nibby. "She's coming along with Miss
Waghorn and me to my brother's at 'Endon--the "Blue Anchor"; do you
know it? Nice little property. You'll have to join us; first rate. I'm
only afraid it may rine. Do you think it will rine?"

"May or may not," replied Gammon, staring at the clouds and thinking
over the situation as it concerned himself. "If it's going to rine, it
will, you know."

"That's true. I'll just let 'em know I'm here."

But at this moment the two young ladies came forth, blushing and
resplendent. Hats were doffed and hands were shaken.

"Why, is that you, Mr. Gammon?" cried Carrie Waghorn when the ceremony
was over, as if only just aware of his presence. "Well, this is a
surprise, isn't it, Polly?"

Miss Sparkes seemed barely to recognize Mr. Gammon, but of necessity
she took a place by his side, and walked on with a rhythmic tossing of
the head, which had a new adornment--a cluster of great blue flowers,
unknown to the botanist, in the place of her everyday poppies.

"If you don't want me," remarked Gammon, glancing at her, "you've only
to say so, and I'm off."

Polly looked up at the sky, and answered with a question.

"Do you think it's going to rine?"

"Shouldn't wonder."

"Well, you are polite."

"What's the rine got to do with politeness? I say, why didn't you
answer my letter?"

"I pay no attention to impertinence," replied Miss Sparkes haughtily.

"Oh, that's it? Never mind; we shall get on better presently. I say,
Polly, do you see you've left marks on my face?"

Polly set her lips and kept a severe silence.

"I don't mind 'em," Gammon continued. "Rather proud of 'em. If anybody
asks me how I got the scratches--"

The girl looked sharply at him.

"Do you mean to say you'd tell? Well, if you call that gentlemanly--"

"Wouldn't tell the truth, Polly, not for as many kisses as there are
scratches, my dear."

Polly bridled--young women of her class still bridle--but looked rather
pleased. And Gammon chuckled to himself, thinking that all went well.

The rain came, but for all that they had a day of enjoyment, spent
chiefly in an arbour, not quite rainproof, on the skittle-ground behind
the "Blue Anchor" at Hendon. Continuous was the popping of corks, and
frequent were the outbursts of hilarity. Polly did not abandon her
reserve with Mr. Gammon; now and then she condescended to smile at his
sallies of wit, whereas she screamed at a joke from others. The
landlord of the "Blue Anchor" was a widower of about thirty, and had
some claims to be considered a lady's man; to him Polly directed her
friendly looks and remarks with a freedom which could not but excite
attention.

"Is that the fellow that's going to give me a thrashing?" Gammon asked
of her at length in an aside.

"Don't be a silly," she answered, turning her back.

"Because, if so, I'd better get the start of him. There's a convenient
bit of ground here."

He spoke with such seeming seriousness that Polly showed alarm.

"Don't be a silly, Mr. Gammon. If you misbehave yourself, I'll never
speak to you again."

"Well, what I want to know is, am I to be on guard? Am I to mind my eye
whenever I'm near you?"

He spoke as if with a real desire to be relieved from apprehension. At
this moment their companions had drawn apart, and they could converse
unheard.

"You know very well what you deserve," replied Polly, looking askance
at him. "And if such a thing ever was to happen again--well, you'd see,
that's all."

Therewith the peace, or at all events the truce, was concluded, and
Miss Sparkes allowed herself to meet Mr. Gammon's advances with
frankness and appreciation. The fact that he did unmistakably make
advances secretly surprised her, but not more than Gammon was surprised
to find himself coming into favour.

A few days later the opportunity for which he waited came to pass, and
he was invited to an interview with Quodling and Son; that is to say,
with a person who was neither Quodling nor Quodling's son, but held a
position of authority at their place of business in Norton Folgate.
Whenever the chance was given him of applying personally for any post
that he desired, Mr. Gammon felt a reasonable assurance of success.
Honesty was written broadly upon his visage; capability declared itself
in his speech. He could win the liking and confidence of any ordinary
man of business in ten minutes. It happened, fortunately, that the firm
of Quodling needed just such a representative. As Gammon knew, they had
been unlucky in their town traveller of late, and they looked just now
more to the "address," the personal qualities, of an applicant for the
position, than to his actual acquaintance with their business, which
was greatly a matter of routine. Mr. Gammon was accepted on trial, and
in a day or two began his urban travels.

Particular about the horses he drove, Gammon saw with pleasure the
young dark-bay cob, stylishly harnessed, which pawed delicately as he
mounted the neat little trap put at his disposal. It is the blessedness
of a mind and temper such as his that the things which charm at the
beginning of life continue to give pleasure, scarce abated, as long as
the natural force remains. At forty years of age Gammon set off about
his business with all the zest of a healthy boy. The knowledge he had
gained, all practical, and, so to speak, for external application,
could never become the burden of the philosopher; if he had any wisdom
at all it consisted in the lack of self-consciousness, the animal
acceptance of whatever good the hour might bring. He and his bay cob
were very much on the same footing; granted but a method of
communication and they would have understood each other. Even so with
his "bow-wows," as he called them. He rose superior to horse and dog
mainly in that one matter of desire for a certain kind of female
companionship; and this strain of idealism, naturally enough, was the
cause of almost the only discontent he ever knew.

Joyously he rattled about the highways and by-ways of greater London.
The position he had now obtained was to become a "permanency"; to
Quodling & Son he could attach himself, making his services
indispensable. One of these days--not just yet--he would look in at
Mrs. Clover's and see whether she still kept in the same resentful mind
towards him. It was an odd thing that nowadays he gave more thought to
Mrs. Clover than to Minnie. The young girl glimmered very far away, at
a height above him; he had made a mistake and frankly recognized it.
But Mrs. Clover, his excellent friend of many years, shone with no such
superiority, and was not above rebuke for any injustice she might do
him. Probably by this time she had forgotten her fretfulness, a result
of overstrung nerves. She would ask his pardon--and ought to do so.

He thought of Polly Sparkes, but always with a peculiar smile,
inclining to a grimace. Polly had "come round" in the most astonishing
way. But she would "come round" yet more before he had done with her.
His idea was to take Polly to Dulwich and show her the bow-wows; he saw
possibilities of a quiet meal together at the inn. The difficulty was
to reassure her natural tremors, without losing the ground he had
gained by judicious approaches.

About the middle of July he prevailed upon her to accept his
invitation, and to come alone, though Polly continued to declare that
she hated dogs, and that she had never in her life gone to so remote
and rural a spot as Dulwich without a "lady friend" to keep her in
countenance.

"Everything must have a beginning," said Gammon merrily.

"If you let those people know, I'll never speak to you again."

She referred to Mrs. Bubb and her household, of whom she had never
ceased to speak with animus.

"Honour bright, they shan't hear a whisper of it."

So on a Sunday morning they made the journey by omnibus for the sake of
the fresh air, Polly remarking again and again on her great
condescension, reaffirming her dislike of dogs, and declaring that if a
drop of rain fell she would turn about homeward forthwith. None the
less did she appear to find pleasure in Mr. Gammon's society. If his
gossip included a casual mention of some young lady, a friend of his,
she pressed for information concerning that person, and never seemed
quite satisfied with what she was told about her. Slyly observant of
this, her companion multiplied his sportive allusions, and was amused
to find Polly grow waspish. Then again he soothed her with solid
flattery; nothing of the kind was too gross for Polly's appetite. And
so conversing they shortened the journey to remote Dulwich.

With gathered skirts and a fear, partly real but more affected, Miss
Sparkes entered the yard where Gammon's dogs were kept. (As a matter of
fact he shared in their ownership with the landlord of the
public-house, a skilful breeder.) When puppies gambolled about her she
woke the echoes with a scream. From a fine terrier, a "game" dog whose
latest exploit was the killing of a hundred rats in six minutes, she
backed trembling, and even put out a hand to Gammon as if for
protection. Polly's behaviour, indeed, was such as would have been
proper in a fine lady forty years ago, the fashion having descended to
her class just as fashions in costume are wont to do at a shorter
interval. When Gammon begged her to feel the "feather" of a beautiful
collie she at length did so with great timidity, and a moment after, to
show how doggy she was becoming, she spoke of the "feather" of a little
black-and-tan, whereat Gammon smiled broadly. On the whole they much
enjoyed themselves, and had a good appetite at dinner time.

The meal was laid for them in a small private room, which smelt
principally of stale tobacco and stale chimney soot. The water-bottle
on the table was encrusted with a white enamel advertisement of
somebody's whisky, and had another such recommendation legible on its
base. The tray used by the girl in attendance was enamelled with the
name of somebody's brandy. On the walls hung three brightly-coloured
calendars, each an advertisement: one of sewing machines, one of a
popular insurance office, one of a local grocery business. The other
mural adornments were old coloured pictures of racehorses and faded
photographs of dogs. A clock on the mantelpiece (not going) showed
across its face the name of a firm that dealt in aerated waters.

Coarse and plentiful were the viands, and Polly did justice to them.
She had excellent teeth, a very uncommon thing in girls of her kind;
but Polly's parents were of country origin. With these weapons she
feared not even the pastry set before her, which it was just possible
to break with an ordinary fork.

Towards the end Gammon grew silent and meditative. He kept gazing at
the windows as if for aid in some calculation. When Polly at last threw
down her cheese-knife, glowing with the thought that she had dined well
at somebody else's expense, he leaned forward on the table, looked her
in the eyes, and began a momentous dialogue.




CHAPTER XIII

GAMMON THE CRAFTY


"What did you want to do such a silly thing as that for?"

Polly stared in astonishment.

"What d'you mean?"

"Why did you let out to Mrs. Clover what you knew?"

The girl's colour deepened by a shade (it was already rich), and her
eyes grew alarmed, suspicious, watchful.

"I didn't let out what I knew," she answered rather confused.

It was Gammon's turn to watch keenly.

"Not all, of course not," he remarked slyly. "But why couldn't you keep
it to yourself that you'd met him?"

Polly's eyes wandered. Gammon smiled with satisfaction.

"I'd have kept that to myself," he said in a friendly way. "I know how
it was, of course; you got riled and came out with it. A great pity.
She had all but forgot him; now she'll never rest till she's found him
out. And you might have seen how much more to your advantage it was to
keep a thing like that quiet."

Unwonted mental disturbance was playing tricks with Polly's complexion.
She evidently feared to compromise herself, and at the same time
desired to know all that was in her companion's mind.

"What business is it of yours?" was the crude phrase that at length
fell from her lips, uttered half-heartedly, between resentment and
jesting.

"Well, there's the point," replied Gammon, with a laugh. "Queer thing,
but it just happens to be particular business of mine."

Polly stared. He nodded.

"There's such a thing, Polly, as going halves in a secret. I've been
wondering these last few days whether I should tell you or not. But
we're getting on so well together--eh? Better than I expected, for one.
I shouldn't feel I was doing right, Polly, if I took any advantage of
you."

She was growing excited. Her wiles had given way before superior
stratagem, and perhaps before something in herself that played traitor.

"You mean you know about him?" she asked, almost confidentially.

"Not all I want to--yet. He's a sharp customer. But considerably more
than you do, Polly, my dear."

"I don't believe you!"

"That has nothing to do with it. Suppose you ask me a question or two.
I might be able to tell you something you would like to know."

It was said, of course, without any suspicion of the real state of
things; but Gammon saw at once that he had excited an eager curiosity.

"You know where he is, then?" asked Polly.

"Well--we'll say so."

"Where? When did _you_ see him last?"

"We're going too quickly, old girl. The question is, When did you see
him last?"

"Ah! you'd like to know, wouldn't you?"

Gammon burst out laughing, ever the surest way of baffling a silly
woman. Polly grew hot with anger, then subsided into mortification. She
knew the weakness of her position, and inclined ever more to make an
ally of the man who had overcome her in battle and carried her off in
his arms.

"And the other question is," Gammon proceeded, as if enjoying a huge
joke, "When did you see him first?"

"I suppose you know?" she murmured reluctantly.

"Let us suppose I do. And suppose I am trying to make up my mind about
the best way of dealing with the little affair. As I told you, I wish
Mrs. Clover didn't know about it; but that's your doing. Our friend,
Mr. C., wouldn't thank you."

"He knows, then, does he?" cried Polly.

"Mr. C. knows a great many things, my dear. He was not born yesterday.
Now, see here, Polly. We're both of us in this, and we'd better be
straight with each other. I am no friend of Mr. C., but I am a friend
of yours, and if you can help me to get a bit tighter hold of him--Yes,
yes, I'll tell you presently. The question is, Whether I can depend
upon what he says? Of course, I know all about you; I want to know more
about him. Now, is it true that you saw him first at the theatre?"

Polly nodded, and Gammon congratulated himself on his guess.

"And--he wasn't alone?"

"No."

"Just what I thought."

"He says he was alone--eh?" asked Polly with eagerness.

"I guess why. Now who was with him, old girl?"

A moment's sulky hesitation and Polly threw away all reserve.

"There was two ladies--if they were ladies; at all events, they was
dressed like it. Oldish, both of 'em. One was a foreigner. I know that
because I heard her speak; and it wasn't English. The other one spoke
back to her in the same way, but I heard her speak English too. And she
was the one as sat next to him."

"Good, Polly, we're getting on. And how did you notice him?"

"Well, it was like this," she began to narrate with vivacity. "I
offered him a programme--see?--and he gave me half a sovereign and
looked up at me, as much as to say he'd like change. And I'd no sooner
met his eyes than I knew him. How could I help? He don't look to have
changed a bit. And I saw as he knew me. I saw it by a queer sort of
wink he give. And then he looked at me frightened like--didn't he just!
Of course, I didn't say nothing, but I kept standing by him a minute or
two. And I'd forgot all about the change till he said to me, with a
sort of look, 'You may keep that,' he said, and I says, 'Thank you,
sir,' and nearly laughed."

"Not a bad tip, eh, Polly?"

"Oh, I've had as good before," she replied, with a brief return to the
old manner.

"No doubt he enjoyed himself that evening. He kept spying round for
you, didn't he?"

"I saw him look once or twice, and I give him a look back, but I
couldn't do much more then; I said to myself I'd keep my eye on him to
see if he came out after the first act. And sure enough he did, and
there was me standing in his way, and he put his hand out to give me
something, and just nodded and went on. It wasn't money, but a bit of
paper twisted up and something wrote on it in pencil."

"I thought so, and where were you to meet him?"

"Well, I knew there couldn't be no harm, him being my own uncle," Polly
replied with the air of repelling an accusation.

"Of course not; who said there was?"

"Well, it was Lincoln's Inn Fields, the next night. And there he was,
sure enough, with his face half hid as if he was ashamed of himself, as
well he might be. And he begins with saying as he was very ill and he
didn't think he'd live long. But I wasn't to think as he forgot me, and
when he died I should find myself provided for. And I wasn't to say a
word to nobody or he'd take my name out of his will at once."

Gammon laughed.

"It's all right, Polly. Don't be afraid. All between me and you. But
I'll bet he didn't tell you where he was living?"

She shook her head.

"Of course not, I knew that," said Gammon, with a mysterious air.
"Well, go on. He met you again, didn't he?"

"Once more, only once."

"Yes, and gave you little presents and told you to be a good gyurl and
never disgrace your uncle. Oh, I know him! But he took precious good
care not to let you know where he lived."

"But you know?" she exclaimed.

"No fear, Polly. You shall, too, if you have patience, though I don't
say it'll be just yet."

A few more questions, and the girl had told everything--Mr. Clover's
failure to keep the third appointment and her fruitless watchings since
then.

"He got a bit timid, Polly, you see," exclaimed Gammon. "And he was
right, too; you couldn't keep it to yourself, you see. You spoil
everything with that temper of yours, my dear. Don't be cross, my
beauty; it don't matter much, comes to the same thing in the end. Now
just look here, Polly. You haven't seen those two ladies again, nor
either one of them?"

"You're wrong there," she cried triumphantly.

"Hollo! Steady, Polly. It wasn't the foreigner then?"

"How did you know?"

Gammon chuckled over his good luck.

"Never mind. We'll come to that another time. Who was she with, my
dear?"

"Another lady and gentleman, much younger than her. I stood near 'em as
long as I could and listened with all my ears, but I couldn't hear
nothing any use. But I saw as they went away in a private kerridge, all
three together; I saw that much."

"And found where they went to?"

"Go along. How could I?"

"Might have been managed, Polly," he answered musingly. "Never mind,
better luck next time. What you've got to do, my angel, is to find
where that lady lives--the one that sat next our friend, you know, not
the foreigner. Keep your eyes open, Polly, and be smart, and if you
tell me where she lives then I shall have something more to say to you.
It's between me and you, my beauty. You just bring me that little bit
of information and you won't regret it."




CHAPTER XIV

MR. PARISH PURSUES A BROUGHAM


Christopher Parish lived at home, that is to say, he was not a lodger
under an alien roof, like the majority of such young men in London, but
abode with his own people--his mother, his elder brother, and his
brother's wife. They had a decent little house in Kennington,
managed--rather better than such houses generally are--by Mrs. Parish
the younger, who was childless, and thus able to devote herself to what
she called "hyjene," a word constantly on her lips and on those of her
husband. Mr. Theodore Parish, aged about five-and-thirty, was an audit
clerk in the offices of a railway company, and he loved to expatiate on
the hardship of his position, which lay in the fact that he could not
hope for a higher income than one hundred and fifty pounds, and this
despite the trying and responsible nature of the duties he discharged.
After dwelling upon this injustice he would add, with peculiar gravity,
that really in certain moods one all but inclined to give a hearing to
the arguments of socialistic agitators. In other moods, and these more
frequent, Mr. Parish indulged in native optimism, tempered by anxiety
in matters of "hyjene." He was much preoccupied with the laundry
question.

"Now, are you quite sure, Ada, that this laundress is a conscientious
woman? Does she manage her establishment on modern principles? I beg
you will make a personal inspection. If ever a laundress refuses to let
you make a personal inspection be sure there is something wrong. Just
think how vital it is, this washing question. We send our clothes, our
personal garments, to a strange house to be mixed with--"

And so on at great length, Mrs. Theodore listening patiently and
approvingly. With equal solicitude did they discuss the food upon their
table.

"Theo, I shall have to change our baker."

"Ah, indeed! Why?"

"I hardly like to tell you, but perhaps I had better. I have only just
found out that a sewer-trap quite close to his shop gives out a most
offensive _affluvia_, especially in this hot weather. The air must be
full of germs. I hardly know whet her we ought to eat even this loaf.
What do you think?"

Every one's dinner was spoilt. Theodore declared that really, when one
considered the complicated and expensive machinery of local government,
if sewer traps and _affluvias_ were allowed to exist in the immediate
neighbourhood of bakers' shops, why it really made one inclined to
think and ask whether there might not be something in the arguments of
the Socialists.

Christopher one day brought home some knickknack which he had bought
from a City pedlar, one of those men who stand at the edge of the
pavement between a vigilant police and a menacing vehicular traffic. It
amused his sister-in-law, who showed it to her husband. Theodore having
learnt whence it came was not a little concerned.

"Now, if that isn't like Christopher! When will that boy learn ordinary
prudence? The idea of buying things from a man whose clothes more
likely than not reek with infection! Dear me! Has he never reflected
where those fellows live? Destroy the thing at once and wash your hands
very carefully, I beg. I do hope you haven't been making pastry or
lemonade? As if the inevitable risks of life were not enough."

It was, of course, utterly unsuspected by the elder members of the
household that Christopher had "formed a connexion," in so innocent a
sense, with a young woman who sold programmes and took tips at the
theatre. That connexion had come about in the simplest way. One Sunday
evening, a year ago, Christopher was returning from Clapham Common on
the top of a crowded tram, and next to him sat a girl with a fresh
colour, whom he eyed with respectfully furtive admiration. This young
person had paid her fare, but carelessly dropped the ticket, and it
chanced that an inspector who came on board at a certain point raised
the question whether she had really paid. The conductor weakly
expressed a doubt, suggesting that this passenger had ascended with two
or three other people since his last collection of fares. Here was a
chance for young Mr. Parish, who could give conscientious evidence.
Very hot in the face, he declared, affirmed, and asseverated that the
young lady was telling the truth, and his energy at length prevailed.
Of course, this led to colloquy between the two. Polly Sparkes, for she
it was, behaved modestly but graciously. It was true she had exhibited
short temper in her passage with the officials, but Christopher thought
this a becoming spirit. In his eyes she was lovely, and could do
nothing amiss. When she alighted he did so too, frowning upon the
conductor by way of final rebuke. Their ways appeared to be the same,
as if inadvertently they walked together along Kennington Road. And so
pleasant was their conversation that Polly went some way past Mrs.
Bubb's before saying that she must bid her new companion good-bye.
Trembling at his audacity, Christopher humbly put the question whether
he might not hope to see the young lady again; and Polly laughed and
tittered, and said she didn't know, but _p'r'aps_. Thereupon Mr. Parish
nervously made an offering of his name and address, and Polly,
tittering again, exclaimed that they lived quite near each other, and
playfully made known the position of her dwelling. So were the
proprieties complied with, and so began the enslavement of Christopher.

He had since told all there was to tell about his family and
circumstances, Polly in return throwing out a few vague hints as to her
own private affairs. Christopher would have liked to invite her to his
home, but lacked courage; his mother, his brother, and Mrs.
Theodore--what would they say? The rigour of their principles overawed
him. He often thought of abandoning his home, but neither for that step
had he the necessary spirit of independence. Miss Sparkes no longer
seemed to him of virtues compact; he sadly admitted in his wakeful
hours that she had a temper; he often doubted whether she ever gave him
a serious thought. But the fact remained that Polly did not send him
about his business, and at times even seemed glad to see him, until
that awful night when, by deplorable accident, he encountered her near
Lincoln's Inn. That surely was the end of everything. Christopher,
after tottering home he knew not how, wept upon his pillow. Of course
he was jealous as well as profoundly hurt. Not without some secret
reason had Polly met him so fiercely, brutally. He would try to think
of her no more; she was clearly not destined to be his.

For a full fortnight he shunned the whole region of London in which
Polly might be met. He was obliged, of course, to pass each night in
Kennington, but he kept himself within doors there. Then he could bear
his misery no longer. Three lachrymose letters had elicited no
response; he wrote once more, and thus:


DEAREST MISS SPARKES,

If you do not wish to be the cause of my death I hereby ask you to see
me, if only for the very shortest space of time. If you refuse I know I
shall do something rash. To-night and tomorrow night at half-past ten I
will be standing at the south end of Westminster Bridge. The _river_
will be near me if _you_ are not; remember that.

Yours for now and eternity, C.J.P.


To this dread summons Polly at length yielded. She met Christopher, and
they paced together on the embankment in front of St. Thomas's
Hospital. It rained a little, and was so close that they both dripped
with perspiration.

"P'r'aps I was a bit short with you," Polly admitted after listening to
her admirer's remonstrances, uttered in a choking voice. "But I can't
stand being spied after, and spied after I won't be."

"I have told you, Polly, at the very least sixty or seventy times, that
I've never done such a thing, and wouldn't, and couldn't. It never came
into my 'ead."

"Well, then, we won't say no more about it, and don't put me out again,
that's all."

"But there's something else, Polly. You know very well, Polly, what a
lot I think of you, don't you now?"

"Oh, I dessay," she replied with careless indulgence.

"Then why won't you let me see you oftener, and--and that kind of
thing, you know?"

This was vague, but perfectly intelligible to the hearer. She gave an
impatient little laugh.

"Oh, don't be silly! Go on!"

"But it isn't silly. You know what I mean. And you said--"

"There you go, bringing up what I said. Don't worry me. If you can't
talk quiet and friendly we'd better not see each other at all. I
shouldn't wonder if that was best for both of us."

Polly had never been less encouraging. She seemed preoccupied, and
spoke in an idle, inattentive way. Her suggestion that they should
"part friends," though she returned upon it several times, did not
sound as if it were made in earnest, and this was Christopher's one
solace.

"Will you meet me reg'lar once a week," he pleaded, "just for a talk?"

"No, it's too often."

"I know what that means," exclaimed the young man in the bitterness of
his soul. "There's somebody else. Yes, that's it; there's somebody
else."

"Well, and what if there was?" asked Polly, looking far away. "I don't
see as it would be any business of yours."

"Oh, just listen to that!" cried Christopher. "That's how a girl talks
to you when she knows you're ready to jump into the river! It's my
belief that girls haven't much feeling."

The outrageous audacity of this avowal saved the speaker from Polly's
indignation. She saw that he was terribly driven, and, in spite of
herself, once more softened towards him; for Polly had never disliked
Mr. Parish; from the very first his ingenuous devotedness excited in
her something, however elementary, of reciprocal feeling. She thought
him comely to look upon, and had often reflected upon how pleasant it
was to rule a man by her slightest look or word. To be sure,
Christopher's worldly position was nothing to boast of; but one' knew
him for the steady, respectable young clerk, who is more likely than
not to advance by modest increments of salary. Miss Sparkes would have
perceived, had she been capable of intellectual perception, that
Christopher answered fairly well to one of her ideals. Others there
were, which tended to draw her from him, but she had never yet
deliberately turned her back upon the young man.

So now, instead of answering bitterness with wrath, she spoke more
gently than of wont.

"Don't take on in that way, you'll only have a headache to-morrow. I
can't promise to meet you regular, but you can write, and I'll let you
know when I'm ready for a talk. There now, won't that do?"

Christopher had to make it do, and presently accepted the conditions
with tolerable grace. Before they parted Polly even assured him that if
ever there _was_ anyone else she would deal honestly with him and let
him know. This being as much as to say that he might still hope,
Christopher cast away his thoughts of self-destruction, and went home
with an appetite for a late supper.

Two months elapsed before anything of moment occurred in the relations
thus established. Then at one of their brief meetings Polly delighted
the young man by telling him that he might wait for her outside the
theatre on a certain evening of the same week. Hitherto such awaitings
had been forbidden.

"Won't I, just!" cried Mr. Parish. "And you'll come and have some
supper?"

"I can't promise; I may want to ask you to do something for me. Just
you be ready, that's all."

He promised exultingly, and when the evening came took up his position
a full hour before Polly could be expected to come forth.

Now this was the first night of a new piece at Polly's theatre, and
she, long watching in vain for the reappearance of the lady whose
address she was to discover for Mr. Gammon, thought it a very possible
thing that a person who had been twice to see the old entertainment
might attend the first performance of the new. Her mysterious uncle had
never again communicated with her, and Polly began to doubt what Mr.
Gammon's knowledge really was; but she had given her confidence beyond
recall, and, though with many vicissitudes of feeling, she still wished
to keep Gammon sole ally in this strange affair. Once or twice indeed
she had felt disposed to tell Christopher that there was "someone
else"; but nothing Gammon had said fully justified this, and Polly,
though an emotional young woman, had a good deal of prudence. One thing
was certain, she very much desired to bring her old enemy to the point
of a declaration. How she would receive it when it came she could not
wholly determine.

Her conjecture regarding the unknown lady was justified. Among the
first who entered the stalls was a man whom Polly seemed to remember,
and close behind him came first a younger lady, then the one for whom
her eyes had searched night after night. In supplying them with
programmes Polly observed and listened with feverish attention. The
elder woman had slightly grizzled hair; her age could not be less than
fifty, but she was in good health and spirits. With the intention of
describing her to Gammon, Polly noticed that she had a somewhat
masculine nose, high in the bridge.

A quarter of an hour before the end of the piece Polly, dressed for
departure, came forth and discovered her faithful slave.

"Now listen to me," she said, checking his blandishments. "I told you
there might be something to do for me, and there is."

Parish was all eagerness.

"There'll be three people coming out from the stalls, a gentleman and
two ladies. I'll show you them--see? They'll drive off in a
kerridge--see? And I want you to find out where they go."

Nothing could have been more startling to Christopher, in whose mind
began a whirl of suspicions and fears.

"Why? What for?" he asked involuntarily.

Polly was short with him.

"All right, if you won't do it say so, and I'll ask somebody else. I've
no time to lose."

He gasped and stammered. Yes, yes, of course he would do it. He had not
dreamt of refusing. He would run after the carriage, however far.

"Don't be a silly. You'll have to take a 'ansom and tell the driver to
follow--see?"

Yes, oh, yes, of course. He would do so. He trembled with excessive
nervousness, and but for the sharp, contemptuous directions given him
by Miss Sparkes must have hopelessly bungled the undertaking. Indeed,
it was not easy to carry out in the confusion before a theatre when the
audience is leaving, and bearing in mind the regulations concerning
vehicles. Their scheme was based upon the certainty that the carriage
must proceed at a very moderate pace for some two or three hundred
yards; within that limit or a very little beyond it--at all events,
before his breath was exhausted--Christopher would certainly be able to
hail a cab.

"Tell the cabby they're friends of yours," said Polly, "and you're
going to the same 'ouse. You look quite respectable enough with your
'igh 'at. That's what I like about you; you always look respectable."

"But--but he will set me down right beside the people."

"Well, what if he does, gooseberry? Can't you just pay him quietly?
They'll think you're for next door."

"But--but it may be a big house by itself somewhere."

"Well, silly. They'll think it's a mistake, that's all. What's the
matter in the dark? You do as I tell you. And when you've got to know
the address--you can take your time about that, of course--come back
along Shaftesbury Avenue and give three knocks at the door, and I'll
come down."

It flashed through Christopher's mind that he would be terribly late in
getting home, but there was no help for it. If he refused this
undertaking, or failed to carry it out successfully, Polly would cast
him off. The gloom of a desperate mood fell upon him. He had the
feeling of a detective or of a criminal, he knew not which; the mystery
of the affair was a hideous oppression.

Even the initial step, that of watching the trio of strangers into
their brougham, was not without difficulty. The pavement began to be
crowded. Clutching her slave by the arm, Polly managed to hold a
position whence she could see the people who descended the front steps
of the theatre, and at length her energy was rewarded. The ladies she
could not have recognized, for they were muffled against the night air,
but their male companion she "spotted"--that was the word in her
mind--with certainty.

"There! See those three? That's them," she whispered excitedly. "Off
you go!"

And off he went, as if life depended upon it; his eyes on the brougham,
his heart throbbing violently, moisture dropping from his forehead and
making his collar limp. The carriage disengaged itself, the pace
quickened, he began to run, and collided with pedestrians who cursed
him. Now--now or never--a cab!

By good luck he plunged into a hansom wanting a fare.

"The carriage--friends of mine--that carriage!"

"Ketch 'em up?" asked the driver briskly.

"No--same 'ouse--follow!"

As he flung himself into the vehicle he seriously feared he was on the
point of breaking a blood vessel, never had he been at such extremity
of breath. But his eyes clung to the brougham in dread lest he should
lose sight of it, or confuse it with another. The driver whipped his
horse. Thank goodness, the carriage remained well in sight. But if
there should come a block! A perilous point was Piccadilly Circus.
Never, it seemed to him, had the streets of London roared with such a
tumult of traffic. Right! The Circus was passed; now Piccadilly with
its blessed quietness. What a speed they kept! Hyde Park Corner,
Knightsbridge, and--what road was that? Christopher's geography failed
him; he pretended to no familiarity with the West End. On swept his
hansom in what he felt to be a most impudent pursuit; nay, for all he
knew, it might subject him to the suspicion of the police. The cabby
need not follow so close; why, the horse's nose all but touched the
brougham now and then. How much farther? How was he to get back? He
could not possibly reach home till one in the morning.

The brougham made a sharp curve, the hansom followed. Then came a
sudden stop.




CHAPTER XV

THE NAME OF GILDERSLEEVE


A square--imposing houses about a space of verdure. That was what
Christopher perceived as he looked wildly round, flung back the apron,
jumped out. His position was awful; voices of the persons alighting
from the brougham seemed to sound at his very ear; he had become one of
the party; the man in evening dress stared at him. But even in this
dread moment so bent was he on fulfilling his mission that he at once
cast an eye over the front of the house to fix it in his memory. There
was a magnificent display of flowers at every window; the houses
immediately right and left had no flowers at all.

Then he fumbled for money. Coppers, a sixpence, a shilling, no other
small change, and he durst not offer so little as eighteenpence.
(However, Heaven be thanked! the people had gone in and the brougham
was moving away.) In his purse he had half a sovereign.

"Got change?" he inquired as boldly as possible.

"How much?" returned the driver curtly, for he had noticed with
curiosity that his fare exchanged no greeting with the carriage people
and that the door was shut.

"Change for half a sovereign. Seven shillings would do."

"Ain't got it. See, fourpence in 'apence, that's all."

The man's eye began to alarm Christopher. He shook with indecision, he
gulped down his bitterness, he handed the golden coin.

"All right; never mind change."

"Thanky, sir. Good night."

And Mr. Parish was alone on the pavement. So grievously did he feel for
the loss of that half-sovereign that for some moments he could think of
nothing else. His heart burned against Polly. What had she got to do
with those people in the big house? How could he be sure that it did
not imply some shameful secret? And he must go throwing away his
hard-earned money! Gladly he would have spent it on a supper for Polly;
but to pay ten shillings for a half-crown drive! A whole blessed
half-sovereign!

Another carriage drove up and stopped at the next house. Christopher
remembered that he must discover the address, an easy matter enough. He
found that the square was called Stanhope Gardens; he noted the number
of the house with flowers. Then, weary, disgusted, he started on his
eastward walk. Omnibuses, of course, there were none. The chance of a
train at some underground station seemed too doubtful to think about;
in any case he had no more money to waste.

On he plodded, heavily, angrily--Cromwell Road, Brompton Road, at last
Piccadilly, and so into familiar districts, though he had never walked
here so late at night. Of course there would be nasty questions
to-morrow; Theodore would look grave, and Ada would be virtuously sour,
and his mother--but perhaps they would not worry her by disclosing such
things. Unaccustomed to express himself with violence, Christopher at
about half-past twelve found some relief in a timid phrase or two of
swearing.

When he reached Shaftesbury Avenue he was dog-tired. The streets had
now become very quiet; he felt a doubt as to the possibility of
knocking at a house door. But Polly had said he was to do so, be the
hour what it might. The front of the house was dark, not a glimmer in
any windows. Doubtfully he drew near and knocked thrice.

Minutes passed, nearly five, in fact, then he knocked again. He would
wait five minutes more, and then--

But the door softly opened.

"That you?" said Polly's voice.

"Yes, it is."

She opened the door wide, and he saw by the light from the street that
she was dressed as usual.

"How late you are! Well? Can't you speak?"

"I'm dead beat, that's the truth," he replied, leaning against the
door-post. "Walked back all the way from South Kensington."

"Oh, it was there, was it?" said Polly, without heed to his complaint.
"What's the address?"

"I tell you what, Polly," broke from Christopher's dry lips, "I think
you might show a bit more feeling for a fellow when he's walked himself
to death--"

"You might have took a cab just for this once."

"A cab! Why, the other one cost me half a sovereign!"

"Half a sovereign!" echoed Polly in amazement. "To South Kensington!"

It did not occur to Mr. Parish that such a detail might be left
unmentioned. In these little matters there is a difference between
class and class. Polly was not, of course, surprised at his letting her
know what the mission had cost him, but the sum made her indignant.

"Well, he had you, that cabby!"

Christopher related the circumstances, still leaning in exhaustion
against the door-post, and Miss Sparkes, who under no conceivable
stress could have suffered herself to be so "done out of" a piece of
gold, scarcely knew whether to despise or to pity him. After all, a
compassionate feeling prevailed, sure sign that there was something
disinterested in her association with this young man.

"I'm very sorry," she said; "I never thought it 'ud cost you that much."

"I shouldn't care a bit," Christopher replied, "if you treated me
better now I've got here."

Polly moved just a little nearer to him, ever so little, but the
movement was appreciable. Unfortunately Christopher was too weary to
notice it.

"What was the address?" she asked in an undertone, which, had but Mr.
Parish understood, fitly accompanied that little movement.

He told her bluntly, and Polly repeated the words

"And now I suppose I may say good night," Christopher added, still with
discontent.

"Well, thank you very much for getting me that address."

"But you won't tell me what you want it for?"

"I will some time. I can't just now. It's awful late, and we mustn't
stand talking here."

Again she came one step nearer. Now if Christopher Parish had not lost
half a Sovereign, or if he had been less worn out, or if the mystery of
the evening had not lain so heavy on his mind, assuredly he would have
noticed this onward coming; for, as a rule, the young man was sensitive
and perceptive enough, all things considered. Alas! he did not look
into Polly's face, which in the dusk of the doorway had turned towards
his.

"I'll be going then," he muttered. "Good night. Jolly long walk before
me still."

"I'm very sorry. I am, really."

"Oh, never mind! When shall I see you again?"

The crucial moment was past. Polly drew a step back and held the door.

"I'll write before long. Good night, and thank you."

Mr. Parish plodded away down the avenue, saying to himself that he was
blest if he'd be made a fool of like this much longer.

The next morning Polly wrote a line to Mr. Gammon, and two days later,
on Sunday, they met in that little strip of garden on the Embankment
which lies between Charing Cross Station and Waterloo Bridge. It was
the first week of October; a cold wind rustled the yellowing plane
trees, and open-air seats offered no strong temptation. The two
conversed as they walked along. Polly had not mentioned in her letter
any special reason for wishing to see Mr. Gammon, nor did she hasten to
make known her discovery.

"Why do you wear a 'at like that on a Sunday?" she began by asking,
tartly.

"Because it's comfortable, I suppose," answered Gammon, reflecting for
the first time that it was not very respectful to come to this
rendezvous in a "bowler." Polly had never mentioned the matter before,
though she had thought about it. "You like the chimney-pot better?"

"Why, of course I do. On a Sunday, too, who wouldn't?"

"I'll bear it in mind, my dear. My chimney-pot wants ironing. Have it
done to-morrow if I can find time."

Polly scrutinized the costume of a girl walking with a soldier, and
asked all at once indifferently:

"Do you know anybody called Gildersleeve?"

"Gildersleeve? Don't think so. No. Why?"

She searched his face to make sure that he did not simulate ignorance.

"Well, you wanted me to find out where that lady lived--you know--her
as was with Mr. C--at the theatre."

"And you've got it?" cried Gammon excitedly.

Yes, she had got it, and by consulting a directory at a public-house
she had discovered the name of the family residing at that address.
Gildersleeve? The name conveyed nothing to Mr. Gammon; none the less he
was delighted.

"Good for you, Polly! But how did you do it?"

She put on an air of mystery. Never mind how; there was the address, if
he could make any use of it. Gammon smiled provokingly.

"Some friend of yours, eh? You're well off for friends, Polly. I ask no
questions, my dear; no business of mine. Much obliged to you, all the
same."

"If you're so particular about who it was," said Polly, with her air of
pique and propriety, "well, it's a boy. So you needn't look at me like
that."

"A boy, eh?"

"Well, that's what _I_ think him. He's a young clurk in the City as
I've known long enough, and _I_ think him a boy. Of course you're
always ready to believe harm of me--that's nothing new. And if the
truth was known, you go talkin' to Mrs. Bubb and them Cheesemans."

"I don't! I told you I shouldn't, and I don't!"

"You do!"

"It's a lie!"

"You're one yourself!" retorted Polly with heat.

Thereupon Mr. Gammon turned about and walked off. Polly could not
believe that he would really go. Scorning to look back she paced on for
some minutes, but no familiar step approached her; when at length she
looked round Mr. Gammon was nowhere to be seen. This extraordinary
behaviour she attributed to jealousy, and so was not entirely
displeased. But the idea of leaving her in the middle of the street, as
one might say! Did one ever! And just after he'd got what he wanted.

"All right, old fellow! Wait till you want to see me again, that's all."

To have his word disbelieved was the one thing fatal to Gammon's
temper. He strode off in a towering rage, determined to hold no more
communication with Miss Sparkes, and blaming himself for having got
into such an ambiguous position towards her. As if he had ever really
cared one snap of the fingers for the red-headed spitfire! She to tell
him to his face that his word was not to be trusted! He had never stood
that yet, from man or woman!

At this rate he would presently have no female friends at all. Mrs.
Clover he had not once seen since the evening at Mrs. Bubb's, and every
day that went by put a greater distance between them. He understood her
unfriendliness; she thought this the best way of destroying any hopes
he might still entertain with reference to Minnie; yes, that was the
only possible explanation of her silence. It was too bad; Mrs. Clover
might have put more faith in him. Now he would not visit her; he would
not write. If she wished to see him again, let her acknowledge the
wrong she had done him.

As for the muddle about her husband, be hanged to it! He would think no
more about the business. Ten to one this address that Polly had
obtained would be quite useless. How could he go to strangers (named
Gildersleeve) and coolly inquire of them whether they knew a man named
Clover? Of course they would have him kicked into the street, and Serve
him right.

Polly and her boy! A young City clerk, eh? Old enough to wear a
chimney-pot, he'd be bound. Polly was fond of chimney-pots. There, he
had done with her, and with Clover and Quodling and Gildersleeve, and
all the rest of the puzzle.

As he suddenly entered the house Moggie ran to him up the kitchen
stairs.

"There's been a gentleman for you, Mr. Gammon."

"Oh! Who was it?"

"Mr. Greenacres, driving a trap, and the 'orse wouldn't stand still,
and he said he'd see you some other time."

"Greenacre, eh? All right."

He sat for a quarter of an hour in his bedroom, unable to decide how he
should spend the rest of the day. After all, perhaps, he ought not to
have abandoned Polly so abruptly. In her own way she had been doing him
a kindness, and as for her temper, well, she couldn't help it.

He would go to Dulwich and see the bow-wows.




CHAPTER XVI

AN ALLY IN THE QUEST


Commercially he was doing well. Quodling and Son were more than
satisfied with him. Excellent prospects lay ahead, and this time it
would assuredly be his own fault if he had not secured the permanency
so much desired for him by Mrs. Clover.

By the by, would this make any difference? What if he let Mrs. Clover
know of his greatly improved position? She might reconsider things. And
yet, as often as he thought of Minnie, he felt that her mother's
objection corresponded too well with the disposition of the girl.
Minnie was not for him. Well and good, he would find somebody else.

Polly Sparkes? Polly be hanged. Why did her eyes and her teeth and her
rosy cheeks keep plaguing him? He had told himself times innumerable
that he cared not a snap of the fingers for Polly and all her
highly-coloured attractions. If only he had not been such a fool as to
treat her shabbily last Sunday morning! He felt sorry, and couldn't get
rid of the vexation.

It worried him this afternoon as he left Quodlings in Norton Folgate
and walked towards the Bank. He was thinking, too, of a poor fellow
with a large family for whom he had tried these last few days to find
employment, without the usual success. In Threadneedle Street a hand
arrested him.

"Just the man I wanted," said the voice of Mr. Greenacre. He was in an
elegant overcoat, with a silk hat of the newest fashion. You remember
your promise?

"What promise?"

"Nonsense! But we can't talk about it here. Come to the Bilboes. Don't
know the Bilboes? What a mood you're in to-day."

Mr. Gammon flattered himself that he knew the City tolerably well, but
with the place of refreshment to which his friend now led him he was
totally unacquainted. It stood or lurked in a very obscure by-way
between the Bank and St. Paul's, and looked externally by no means
inviting; within, but for the absence of daylight at all times, it was
comfortable enough, and peculiarly quiet--something between an old inn
and a modern public-house, with several small rooms for eating,
drinking, smoking, or any other legitimate occupation. The few men who
were about had a prosperous appearance, and Gammon saw that they did
not belong to his special world.

"What does the name mean?" he inquired, as they seated themselves under
a gas-jet in a corner made cosy with a deep divan.

"Bilboes? Oh, I originated it in the days gone by. The proprietor was a
man called William Bowes--you perceive? Poor little Jimmy Todd used to
roar about it. The best-natured fellow that ever lived. You've heard me
speak of him--second son of Sir Luke Todd. Died, poor boy, out in
India."

"What promise of mine were you talking about?" asked Gammon, when an
order for drinks had been given.

"Promise--promise? Nonsense! You're wool-gathering to-day, my dear boy.
By the by, I called at your place on Sunday. I was driving a very fresh
pony, new to harness; promised to trot her round a little for a friend
of mine. Thought you might have liked a little turn on the Surrey
roads."

Greenacre chatted with his usual fluency, and seemed at ease in the
world.

"You're doing well just now, eh?" said Gammon presently.

"Thanks; feel remarkably well. A touch of liver now and then, but
nothing serious. By the by, anything I can do for you? Any genealogy?"

Gammon had drained his tumbler of hot whisky, and felt better for it.
With the second he became more communicative. He asked himself why,
after all, he should not hang on to the clue he had obtained from
Polly, and why Greenacre should not be made use of.

"Know anything about a Gildersleeve?" he asked with a laugh.

His companion smiled cheerfully, looking at once more interested.

"Gildersleeve! Why, yes, there was a boy of that name--no, no; it was
Gildersleeves, I remember. Any connexion with Quodling?"

"Can't say. The people I mean live in Stanhope Gardens. I don't know
anything about them."

"Like to?"

Gammon admitted that the name had a significance for him. A matter of
curiosity.

"No harm in a bit of genealogy," said Greenacre. "Always interesting.
Stanhope Gardens? What number?"

He urged no further question and gave no promise, but Gammon felt sure
this time that information would speedily be forthcoming. Scarcely a
week passed before Greenacre wrote to him with a request for a meeting
at the Bilboes. As usual, the man of mystery approached his subject by
indirect routes. Beginning with praise of London as the richest ground
of romance discoverable in the world, he proceeded to tell the story of
a cats'-meat woman who, after purveying for the cats at a West End
mansion for many years, discovered one day that the master of the house
was her own son.

"He behaved to her very handsomely. At this moment she is living in a
pleasant little villa out Leatherhead way. You see her driving herself
in a little donkey-carriage, and throwing bits of meat to pussy-cats at
the cottage doors. Touch of nature that, isn't it? By the by, you were
speaking of a family named Gildersleeve."

He added this, absently looking about the little room, which just now
they had to themselves.

"Know anything about them?" asked Gammon, eyeing him curiously.

"I was just going to say--ah, yes, to be sure, the Gildersleeves. Now I
wonder, Gammon--forgive me, I can't help wondering--_why_ this family
interests you."

"Oh, nothing. I came across the name."

"Evidently." Greenacre's tone became a little more positive. "I'm sure
you have no objection to telling me how and where you came across it."

Gammon had an uncomfortable sense of something unfamiliar in his
friend. Greenacre had never spoken in this way to him; it sounded
rather too imperative, too much the tone of a superior.

"I don't think I can tell you that," he said awkwardly.

"No? Really? I'm sorry. In that case I can't tell you anything that I
have learnt. Yet I fancy it _might_ be worth your while to exchange."

"Exchange?"

"Your information for mine, you know. What I have is substantial,
reliable. I think you can trust me in matters of genealogy. Come now.
Am I right in supposing this curiosity of yours is not altogether
unconnected with Your interest in Francis Quodling the silk broker?
Nothing to me, Gammon; nothing, I assure you. Pure love of genealogical
inquiry. Never made a penny out of such things in my life. But I have
taken a little trouble, etc. As a matter of friendship--no? Then we'll
drop the subject. By the by have you a black-and-tan to dispose of?"

He passed into a vein so chatty and so amiable that Gammon began to
repent of distrusting him. Besides, his information might be really
valuable and could not easily be obtained in any other way.

"Look here, Greenacre, I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. The fact
is, a man I used to know has disappeared, and I want to find him. He
was seen at the theatre with a lady who lives at that house; that's the
long and the short of it."

"Good! Now we're getting on in the old way. Age of the man about fifty,
eh? And if I remember you said he was like Quodling in the face,
Francis Quodling? Just so. H'm. I can assure you, then, that no such
individual lives at the house we're speaking of."

"No, but perhaps--"

"One moment. The Gildersleeves are a young married couple. With them
lives an older lady--"

Greenacre paused, meditating.

"The name of the missing man?" he added gently.

"Fellow called Clover."

"Clover--clover? _Clo_--"

Greenacre's first repetition of the name was mechanical, the next
sounded a note of confused surprise, the third broke short in a very
singular way, just as if his eyes had suddenly fallen on something
which startled him into silence. Yet no one had entered the room, no
face had appeared at the door.

"What's up?" asked Gammon.

The other regained his self-possession, as though he had for a moment
wandered mentally from the subject they were discussing.

"Forgive me. What name did you say? Yes, yes, Clover. Odd name. Tell me
something about him. Where did you know him? What was he?"

Having gone so far, Gammon saw no reason for refusing the details of
the story. With the pleasure that every man feels in narrating
circumstances known only to a few, he told all he could about the
career of Mrs. Clover's husband. Greenacre listened with a placidly
smiling attention.

"Just the kind of thing I am always coming across," he remarked.
"Everyday story in London. We must find this man. Do you know his
Christian name?"

Mrs. Clover called him Mark.

"Mark? May or may not be his own, of course. And now, if you permit the
question, who saw this man and recognized him in the theatre?"

Gammon gave a laugh. Then, fearing that he might convey a wrong
impression, he answered seriously that it was a niece of Mrs. Clover, a
young lady with whom he was on friendly terms, nothing whatever but
friendly terms; a most respectable young lady--anxious, naturally, to
bring Mrs. Clover and her husband together again, but discreet enough
to have kept the matter quiet as yet. And he explained how it came
about that this young lady knew only the address in Stanhope Gardens.

After reflecting upon that, Greenacre urged that it would be just as
well not to take the young lady into their counsel for the present, to
which his friend readily assented. And so, when they had chatted a
little longer, the man of mystery rose "to keep an appointment." Gammon
should hear from him in a day or two.

When ten days had gone by without the fulfilment of this promise Gammon
grew uneasy. He could not communicate with Greenacre, having no idea'
where the man lived or where he was to be heard of; an inquiry at the
Bilboes proved that he was not known there. One evening Gammon went to
look for himself at the house in Stanhope Gardens; he hung about the
place for half an hour, but saw nothing of interest or importance. He
walked once or twice along Shaftesbury Avenue, but did not chance to
meet Polly, and could not make up his mind to beg an interview with
her. At the end of a fortnight Greenacre wrote, and that evening they
met again at the obscure house of entertainment.

"It is not often," said Greenacre, in a despondent tone, "that I have
found an inquiry so difficult. Of course it interests me all the more,
and I shall go on with it, but I must freely confess that I've got
nothing yet--absolutely nothing."

Gammon observed him vigilantly.

"Do you know what has occurred to me?" pursued the other, with a half
melancholy droop of the head. "I really begin to fear that the young
lady, your friend, may have made a mistake."

"How can that be, when he met her twice and talked with her?"

"You didn't tell me that," replied Greenacre, as if surprised.

"No, I didn't mention it. I thought it was enough to tell you she spied
him at the theatre."

He added a brief account of what had happened between Polly and her
uncle, Greenacre listening as if this threw new light on the case.

"Then the mistake is mine. It's more interesting than ever. This puts
me on my mettle, Gammon. Don't lose courage. I have a wonderful scent
in this kind of thing. Above all, not a word to anybody--you understand
the importance of _that_?"

"That's all right."

"I have a theory--oh, yes, there's a theory. Without a theory nothing
can be done. I am working, Gammon, on the scientific principle of
induction."

"Oh, are you!"

"Strictly; it has never failed me yet--I can't ay now; appointment at
ten-thirty. But you all hear from me in a day or two."

"I say," inquired Gammon, "what's your dress now?"

"Address?--oh, address letters to this place. They'll be all right."

Another fortnight passed. It was now early in November; the weather
gloomy, and by no means favourable to evening strolls. Gammon wanted
much to see both Polly and Mrs. Clover; he had all but made up his mind
to write to both of them, yet could not decide on the proper tone in
either case. Was he to be humble to Mrs. Clover? Should he beg pardon
of Polly? That kind of thing did not come easily to him.

On a day of thin yellow fog he returned about noon from seeing to a
piece of business, the result of which he had to report at once to Mr.
Quodling. He entered the clerk's office and asked whether "the
governor" was alone.

"No, he ain't," replied a friendly young man. "He's got a lord with
him."

"A what?"

"A peer of the realm, sir! I had the honour of taking his ludship's
card in--Lord Poll-parrot. Can't say I ever heard of him before."

"What d'you mean? See here, I'm in a hurry; no kid, Simpson."

"Well, it might be Poll-parrot. As a matter of fact, it's Lord
Polperro."

Gammon gazed fixedly at the young man.

"Lord Polperro? By jorrocks!"

"Know him, Mr. Gammon?" asked another of the clerks.

"I know his name. All right, I'll wait."

Musing on the remarkable coincidence--which seemed to prove beyond
doubt that there still existed some connexion between the family of
Quodling and the titled house which he had heard of from Greenacre--he
stood in the entrance passage, and looked out for five minutes through
the glass door at the fog-dimmed traffic of Norton Folgate. Then a step
sounded behind him. He moved aside and saw a man in a heavy fur-lined
overcoat, with a muffler loose about his neck; a thin,
unhealthy-looking man, with sharp eyes, rather bloodshot, which turned
timidly this way and that, and a high-bridged nose. As soon as he
caught sight of the face Gammon drew himself up, every muscle strung.
The man observed him, looked again more furtively, stepped past to the
door.

It took Gammon but a moment to dart into the clerk's room and ascertain
that the person who had just gone out was Lord Polperro. A moment more
and he was out in the street. The heavy-coated and mufflered man was
walking quickly southward; he waved his umbrella to a passing cab,
which, however, did not pull up. Gammon followed for thirty yards.
Again the man hailed a cab, and this time successfully. Just as he was
about to step into the vehicle Gammon stood beside him.

"How do you do, Mr. Clover?"




CHAPTER XVII

POLLY SHOWS WEAKNESS


It was spoken with quiet confidence. Gammon smiled as he looked
steadily into the pale, thin face, which at once grew mottled with a
disturbance of the blood.

"You are making a mistake, sir," replied an indistinct voice, with an
effort at dignity.

"Oh, no, not a bit of it. Not now I've heard you speak, Mr. Clover."

"I don't understand you, sir," sounded more clearly, the pallid visage
now a muddy red and the eyes moist. "That is not my name. Be so good as
to go your way."

"Certainly. I just wanted to make sure, that's all. No fuss. Good
morning, Mr. Clover."

Gammon drew back. He heard the order "Charing Cross," and the cab drew
away.

After a moment or two of irresolution Gammon walked hurriedly back to
the nearest public-house, where he called for a glass of bitter and the
Directory. With the former he slaked a decided dryness of the throat,
the latter he searched eagerly in the section "Court." There it was!
"Polperro, Lord, 16, Lowndes Mansions, Sloane Street, S.W. Junior
Ramblers' Club. Trefoyle, Liskeard, Cornwall."

By jorrocks!

With thoughts tuned to anything but the oil and colour business he
returned to Quodlings' and had his interview with the head of the firm.
Mr. Quodling, senior, was a gruff, heavy-featured man, decidedly of
coarse fibre; when moved he swore with gusto, and it did not take much
to put him out. At present he was in an irritable mood, and, very
unlike his habit, gave scant attention to the affair of which Gammon
spoke. It would not have improved his temper had he known that the town
traveller was amusing himself with the reflection that there was no
trace of personal resemblance between him and his brother Francis, who,
on the other hand, bore a very strong likeness indeed to--Lord Polperro.

As soon as he could get away Gammon dispatched a telegram. It was to
Miss Sparkes, whom he requested to meet him at the theatre door that
night when she left. "Something very important to tell you."

This was done on a tell-tale impulse; it showed in what direction his
thoughts and mind most readily turned just now. Thinking it over in the
hours that followed he doubted whether, after all, he would tell Polly
exactly what had happened; she could be useful to him in the way he
intended without knowing more than she had discovered for herself.
Doubt as to the identity of Lord Polperro with Mrs. Clover's husband he
had none whatever--face, voice, trick of lips, and eyebrows made
mistake an impossibility; but he must bring the man into a position
where there would be no choice but to reveal himself, and, so far as
Gammon knew, no one but Polly could help to that end. With Mrs. Clover
he would communicate when the facts of the strange story were made
plain; not yet a while. And as for Greenacre, why, it was splendid to
have got beforehand with that keen-scented fellow. The promise to keep
silence held good only whilst their search might be hindered by
someone's indiscretion. Now that the search was over he felt himself
free to act as he chose.

But what an astounding discovery! Again and again, by jorrocks!

He was near the theatre long before his time. He had never waited so
long or so impatiently for anyone since the days of his first
sweethearting, twenty and odd years ago. When Polly at length came out
she met him with a shyness and awkwardness which he fancied he
perfectly understood.

"I want you to come with me where we can have a quiet talk," he said at
once in a tone of eager cordiality. "It's too wet for walking; we'll
have a cab."

Polly gazed at him in unfeigned surprise, and asked where they were to
go. Not far, he replied; here was a cab; in with her. And before she
could decide upon resistance Polly was seated by him. Gammon then
explained that he had the use of a sitting-room at a coffee tavern;
they would be there in a minute or two, There was good news for
her--news that couldn't be told in the street or in a crowded
restaurant.

"Did you get my letter?" she asked, shrinking as far from him as space
allowed.

"Letter? When?"

"I posted it this morning," Polly answered in a timidly sullen voice.

He had not been home since breakfast-time. She had written to him? Now,
wasn't that a queer thing! All yesterday he, too, had thought of
writing, and to-day would have done so in any case. Never mind, the
letter would be waiting for him. Was it nice? Was it sweet and amiable,
like herself? Ha ha! Ho ho!

As he laughed the cab drew up with a jerk. Polly saw that she was in a
familiar thoroughfare and in front of a respectable establishment, but
it was not without a little distrust that she entered by the private
door and went upstairs. A large room, so ugly and uncomfortable that it
helped to reassure her, was quickly lighted. Gammon requested the woman
in attendance to bring pen, ink, and paper, whereat Polly again stared
her surprise.

"Come and sit over here," said Gammon, "away from the door. Now make
yourself comfortable, old girl. Sure you won't have anything?"

The writing materials were brought; the door was closed.

"Now we're all right. A long time since we saw each other, Polly. Have
you heard anything? Any more about Mr. C.?"

She shook her head.

"Well, look here now, I want you to write to him. You didn't believe me
when I said I knew. Well, you'll believe me now. I want you to write to
him, and to ask him to meet you _here_. If he won't come I know what to
do next. But you just write a few lines; you know how. You want to see
him at this coffee tavern at five o'clock tomorrow; he's to come to the
private door and ask for Miss--let's say Miss Ellis--that'll do. I
shall be here, but not in the room at first; I'll come in when you've
had a little talk. I don't think he'll refuse to come when he sees
you've got his address."

"What is the address?"

"Patience, my dear; wait till you've written the letter. I'll walk up
and down the room whilst you do it."

He began pacing, but Polly made no movement towards the table. She was
strangely sullen, or, perhaps, depressed; not at all like herself, even
when in anger. She cast glances at her companion, and seemed desirous
of saying something--of making some protest--but her tongue failed her.

"No hurry," Gammon remarked, after humming through a tune. "Think it
out. Only a line or two."

"Are you telling me the truth about my letter?" she suddenly asked.
"You haven't read it?"

"I assure you I haven't. That's a treat for when I get home."

Still she delayed, but before Gammon had taken many more steps she was
seated at the table, and biting the end of the penholder.

"You'll have to tell me what to say."

"All right. Take the words down."

He dictated with all possible brevity. The letter was folded and
enclosed. Only in the last few minutes had Gammon quite decided to
share his knowledge with Polly. As she bent her head and wrote,
something in the attitude--perhaps a suggestion of
domesticity--appealed to his emotions, which were ready for such a
juncture as this. After all there were not many girls prettier than
Polly, or with more of the attractiveness of their sex. He looked,
looked till he could not turn away.

"Now then for the address. I'll write it on this piece of paper, and
you shall copy it."

Polly watched him, puzzled by the nervous grin on his face. She took
the paper, on which he had written as legibly as he could--

  "Lord Polperro,
  16, Lowndes Mansions,
  Sloane Street,
  S.W."

And having read it she stared at him.

"What d'you mean?"

"That's the address."

"Are you making a fool of me?" Polly exclaimed, angry suspicion
flashing in her eyes.

"I tell you that's your uncle's address. Now be careful, Polly! I won't
stand it a second time."

He was only half joking. Excitement tingled in him--the kind of
excitement which might lead either to rage or caresses. He swayed now
on one foot, now on the other, as if preparing for a dance, and his
fists were clenched upon his hips.

"You mean to say that's his _reel_ name?" cried Polly, she, too,
quivering and reddening.

"I do. Now mind, Polly; mind what you say, my girl! I won't stand it a
second time."

"Don't go on like a ijiot!" exclaimed the girl, starting up from her
chair. "Of course I'll believe it if you tell me you're not kidding.
And you mean to say he's a lord?"

"See for yourself."

"And his name ain't Clover at all? Then what's my awnt's name?"

Why, Lady Polperro, of course! And Minnie is--well, I don't exactly
know--Lady Minnie Polperro, I suppose. And you--no, I don't think it
gives you a title; but, you see, you are the niece of Lord Polperro.
Think of that, Polly; you've got a lord for your uncle--a peer of the
realm!

He came nearer and nearer as he spoke, his eyes distended with wild
merriment, his arms swinging.

"And it's me that found it out, Polly! What have you got to say for it?
Eh, old girl? What have you got to say?"

Polly uttered a scream of laughter and threw herself forward. Gammon's
arms were ready; they clasped her and hugged her, she not dreaming of
resistance--anything but that. Only when her face was very red, and her
hat all but off, and her hair beginning to come loose, did she gently
put him away.

"That'll do; that's enough."

"You mean it, don't you?" asked Gammon, tenderly enfolding her waist.

"I s'pose so; it looks like it. That'll do; let me git my breath. What
a silly you are!"

"And were you fond of me all the time, Polly?" he whispered at her ear
as she sat down.

"I dessay; how do I know? It's quite certain you wasn't fond of me, or
you'd never have gone off like you did that Sunday."

"Why, I've been fond of you for no end of a time! Haven't I showed it
in lots of ways? You must have known, and you did know."

"When you smashed my door in and fought me?" asked Polly with a
shamefaced laugh.

"You don't think I'd have taken all that trouble if it hadn't been for
the pleasure of carrying you downstairs?"

"Go along!"

"But there wasn't much love about you, Polly. You hit jolly hard, old
girl, and you kicked and you scratched. Why, I've bruises yet!"

"Serve you right! Do let me put my 'air and my 'at straight."

"I say, Polly--" and he whispered something.

"I s'pose so--some day," was her answer, with head bent over the hat
she was smoothing into shape.

"But won't you think yourself too good for me? Remember, you've got a
lord for your uncle."

It returned upon both with the freshness of surprise; even Polly had
quite lost sight of the startling fact during the last few minutes.
They looked at the unaddressed letter; they gazed into each other's
faces.

"You haven't gone and made a mistake?" asked Polly in an awed undertone.

"There now! You didn't think; you're beginning to be sorry."

"No, I'm not."

"You are; I can see it."

"Oh, all right; have it your own way! I thought you wouldn't be so
sweet-tempered very long. You're all alike, you men."

"Why, it's you that can't keep your temper!" shouted Gammon. "I only
wanted to hear you say it wouldn't make any difference, happen what
might."

"And didn't I say it wouldn't?" shrilled Polly. "What more can I say?"

Strangely enough a real tear had started in her eye. Gammon saw it and
was at once remorseful. He humbled himself before her; he declared
himself a beast and a brute. Polly was a darling: far too good for him,
too sweet and gentle and lovely. He ought to think himself the happiest
man living, by jorrocks if he oughtn't! Just one more! Why, he liked a
girl to have spirit! He wouldn't give tuppence farthing for fifty girls
that couldn't speak up for themselves. And if she was the niece of a
lord, why, she deserved it and a good deal more. She ought to be Lady
Polly straight away; and hanged if he wouldn't call her so.

"Hadn't we better get this letter addressed?" Polly asked, very amiable
again.

"Yes; it's getting late, I'm afraid."

Polly drew up to the table, but her hand was so unsteady that it cost
her much trouble to manage the pen.

"I've wrote it awful bad. Does it matter?"

"Bad? Why it's beautifully written, Polly--Lady Polly, I mean. I've got
a stamp."

She stuck it on to the envelope with an angle upwards; and Gammon
declared that it was beautifully done; he never knew anyone stamp a
letter so nicely. As she gazed at the completed missive Polly had a
sudden thought which made a change in her countenance. She looked round.

"What is it?"

"He hasn't got another wife, has he?"

"Not likely," answered Gammon. "If so he's committed bigamy, and so
much the worse for him. Your aunt must have been his first--it was so
long ago."

"Couldn't you find out? Isn't there a book as gives all about lords and
their families? I've heard so."

"I believe there is," replied the other thoughtfully. "I'll get a look
at it somewhere. He's scamp enough for anything, I've no doubt. He
comes of a bad lot, Polly. There's all sorts of queer stories about his
father--at least, I suppose it was his father."

"Tell me some," said Polly with eagerness.

"Oh, I will some day. But now I come to think of it, I don't know when
he became Lord Polperro. He couldn't, of course, till the death of his
father. Most likely the old man was alive when he married your aunt.
It's easy to understand now why he's led such a queer life, isn't it? I
shouldn't a bit wonder if he went away the second time because his
father had died. I'll find out about it. Would you believe, when I met
him in the street and spoke to him, he pretended he'd never heard such
a name as Clover!"

"You met him, did you? When?"

"Oh--I'll tell you all about that afterwards. It's getting late. We
shall have lots of talk. You'll let me take you home? We'll have a cab,
shall we? Lady Pollys don't walk about the streets on a wet night."

She stood in thought.

"I want you to do something for me."

"Right you are! Tell me and I'll do it like a shot, see if I don't."

His arm again encircled her, and this time Polly did not talk of her
'at or her 'air. Indeed, she bent her head, half hiding her face
against him.

"You know that letter I sent you?"

"What's in it? Something nicey-picey?"

"I want you to let me go to the 'ouse with you--just to the door--and I
want you to give me that letter back--just as it is--without opening
it. You will, won't you, deary?"

"Of course I will, if you really mean it."

"I do, it was a _narsty_ letter. I couldn't bear to have you read it
now."

Gammon had no difficulty in imagining the kind of epistle which Polly
would desire suppressed; yet, for some obscure reason, he would rather
have read it. But his promise was given. Polly, in turn, promised to
write another letter for him as soon as possible.

So they drove in a hansom, through a night which washed the fog away,
to Kennington Road, and whilst Polly kept her place in the vehicle
Gammon ran upstairs. There lay the letter on his dressing-table. He
hastened down with it, and before handing it to its writer kissed the
envelope.

"Go along!" exclaimed Polly, in high good humour, as she reached out
with eager fingers.

Late as it was he accompanied her to Shaftesbury Avenue, and they
parted tenderly after having come to an agreement about the next
evening.




CHAPTER XVIII

LORD POLPERRO'S REPRESENTATIVE


By discreet inquiry Mr. Gammon procured an introduction to "Debrett,"
who supplied him with a great deal of information. In the first place
he learned that the present Lord Polperro, fourth of that title, was
not the son, but the brother of the Lord Polperro preceding him, both
being offspring, it was plain, of the peer whose will occasioned a
lawsuit some forty years ago. Granted the truth of scandalous rumour,
which had such remarkable supports in facial characteristics, the
present bearer of the title would be, in fact, half-brother to Francis
Quodling. Again, it was discoverable that the Lord Polperro of to-day
succeeded to the barony in the very year of Mrs. Clover's husband's
second disappearance.

"Just what I said," was Gammon's mental comment as he thumped the
aristocratic pages.

Now for the women. To begin with, Lord Polperro was set down a
bachelor--ha! ha! Then he had one sister, Miss Adela Trefoyle, older
than himself, and that might very well be the lady who was seen beside
him at the theatre. Then again, though his elder brother's male
children had died, there was living a daughter, by name Adeline,
recently wedded to--by jorrocks!--Lucian Gildersleeve, Esquire. Why,
here was "the whole boiling of 'em!"

Mr. Gammon eagerly jotted down the particulars in his notebook, and
swallowed the whisky at his side with gusto. Not once, however, had he
asked himself why this man of guiles and freaks chose to mask under the
name of Clover, an omission to be accounted for not by any lack of wit,
but by mere educational defect. He could not have been further from
suspecting that his utterance of the name Clover had given his
genealogical friend a most important clue, and a long start in the
search for the missing man.

Impatiently he awaited the early nightfall of the morrow. Business had
to be attended to as usual; but he went about with a bearing of
extraordinary animation, now laughing to himself, now snapping his
fingers, now (when he chanced to be out of people's sight) twirling
round on one leg. Either of yesterday's events would have sufficed to
exhilarate him; together they whipped his blood and frothed his fancy.
He had found Clover, who was a lord! He had won the love of Polly
Sparkes, who was the finest girl living! Did ever the bagman of an oil
and colour firm speed about his duties with such springs of excitement
bubbling within him?

And Mrs. Clover? Ought she not to be told at once? Had he any right to
keep to himself such a discovery as this? He knew, by police court
precedent, that a false name in marriage did not invalidate the
contract. Beyond shadow of doubt Mrs. Clover was Lady Polperro. And
Minnie--why, suppose Minnie had favoured his suit, he would have been
son-in-law of a peer! As it was, whom might not the girl marry! She
would pass from the neighbourhood of Battersea Park Road to a house in
Mayfair or Belgravia; from Doulton's and the china shop to unimaginable
heights of social dignity. And who more fit for the new sphere? Mr.
Gammon sighed, but in a moment remembered Polly and snapped his fingers.

A little before five o'clock he was hovering within sight of the coffee
tavern, which already threw radiance into the murky and muddy street.
In a minute or two he saw Polly and exchanged a quick word with her.

"Up you go! You'll find all ready. If he comes I shall see him, and
I'll look in when you've had a little talk."

Polly disappeared, and Mr. Gammon again hovered. But who was this
approaching? Of all unwelcome people at this moment, hanged if it
wasn't Greenacre! What did the fellow want here? He was staring about
him as if to make sure of an address. Worse than that, he stepped up to
the private door of the coffee-tavern and rang the bell.

Shrinking aside into darkness, Gammon felt a shiver of unaccountable
apprehension, which was quickly followed by a thrill of angry
annoyance. What did this mean? The door had opened, Greenacre was
admitted. What the devil did this mean? If it wasn't enough to make a
fellow want to wring another fellow's neck!

He waited thirty seconds, thinking it was five minutes, then went to
the door, rang, and entered.

"Who came in just now, miss?"

"The gentleman for the young lydy, sir."

"By jorrocks!"

Gammon mounted the stairs at break-neck speed and burst into the
private sitting-room. There stood Polly, with her head up, looking pert
indignation and surprise, and before her stood Greenacre, discoursing
in his politest tone.

"What are you doing here?" asked Gammon breathlessly. "What are you up
to, eh?"

"Ah, Gammon, how do you do? I'm glad you've dropped in. Let us sit down
and have a quiet talk."

The man of mystery was very well dressed, very cool, more than equal to
the situation. He took for granted the perfect friendliness of both
Polly and Gammon, smiled from one to the other, and as he seated
himself, drew out a cigarette case.

"I'm sure Miss Sparkes won't mind. I have already apologized, Gammon,
for the necessity of introducing myself. You, I am sure, will forgive
me when you learn the position of affairs. I'm so glad you happened to
drop in."

Declining a cigarette, Gammon stared about him in angry confusion. He
had no words ready. Greenacre's sang-froid, though it irritated him
excessively, shamed him into quiet behaviour.

"When you entered, Gammon, I was just explaining to Miss Sparkes that I
am here on behalf of her uncle, Lord Polperro."

"Oh, you are. And how do you come to know him?"

"Singular accident. The kind of thing that is constantly happening in
London. Lord Polperro is living next door to an old friend of mine, a
man I haven't seen for some seven or eight years till the other day. I
happened to hear of my friend's address, called upon him, and there met
his lordship. Now wasn't it a strange thing, Gammon? Just when you and
I were so interested in a certain puzzle, a delightful bit of
genealogy. Lord Polperro and I quite took to each other. He seemed to
like my chat, and, in fact, we have been seeing a good deal of each
other for a week or two."

"You kept this to yourself, Gammon."

"For a sufficient reason--anything but a selfish one. You, I may
remark, also made a discovery and kept it to yourself."

"It was my own business."

"Certainly. Don't dream that I find fault with you, my dear fellow. It
was the most natural thing in the world. Now let me explain. I grieve
to tell you that Lord Polperro is in very poor health. To be explicit,
he is suffering from a complication of serious disorders, among them
disease of the heart." He paused to let his announcement have its full
effect. "You will understand why I am here to represent him. Lord
Polperro dare not, simply dare not, expose himself to an agitating
interview; it might--it probably would--cost him his life. Miss
Sparkes, I am sure you would not like to see your noble relative fall
lifeless at your feet?"

Polly looked at Gammon, who, in spite of wrath, could not help smiling.

"He didn't do it in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Greenacre."

"He did not; but I very greatly fear that those meetings--of course I
have heard of them--helped to bring about the crisis under which he is
now suffering, as also did a certain other meeting which you will
recollect, Gammon. Pray tell me, did Lord Polperro seem to you in
robust health?"

"Can't say he did. Looked jolly seedy."

"Precisely. Acting on my advice he has left town for a few days. I
shall join him to-morrow, and do my best to keep up his spirits. You
will now see the necessity for using great caution, great
consideration, in this strange affair. We can be quite frank with each
other, Gammon, and of course we have no secrets from my new and valued
friend--if she will let me call her so--Miss Polly Sparkes. One has but
to look at Miss Sparkes to see the sweetness and thoughtfulness of her
disposition. Come now, we are going to make a little plot together, to
act for the best. I am sure we do not wish Lord Polperro's death. I am
sure _you_ do not, Miss Sparkes."

Polly again looked at Gammon, and muttered that of course she didn't.
Gammon grinned. Feeling sure of his power to act independently, if need
were, he began to see the jocose side of things.

"One question I should like to ask," continued Greenacre, lighting a
second cigarette. "Has Mrs. Clover--as we will continue to call her,
with an implied apology--been informed yet?"

"I haven't told her," said Gammon frankly.

"And I'm sure I haven't," added Polly, who had begun to observe Mr.
Greenacre with a less hostile eye, and was recovering her native
vivacity.

Greenacre looked satisfied.

"Then I think you have acted very wisely indeed--as one might have
expected from Miss Sparkes. I don't mean I shouldn't have expected it
from you too, Gammon; but you and I are not on ceremony, old man. Now
let me have your attention. We begin by admitting that Lord Polperro
has put himself in a very painful position. Painful, let me tell you,
in every sense. Lord Polperro desires nothing so much--nothing so
much--as to be reunited to his family. He longs for the society of his
wife and daughter. What more natural in a man who feels that his days
are numbered! Lord Polperro bitterly laments the follies of his life
which are explained, Gammon, as you and I know, by the character he
inherited. We know the peculiarities of the Trefoyle family. Some of
them I must not refer to in the presence of a young lady such as Miss
Sparkes." Polly looked at her toes and smirked. "But Lord Polperro's
chief fault seems to have been an insuperable restlessness, which early
took the form of a revolt against the habits and prejudices of
aristocratic life. Knowing so much of that life myself, I must say that
I understand him; that, to a certain extent, I sympathize with him.
When a youth he desired the liberty of a plebeian station, and sought
it under disguises. You must remember that at that time he had very
little prospect of ever succeeding to the title. Let me give you a
little genealogy."

"Needn't trouble," put in Gammon. "I know it all. Got it out of a book.
I'll tell you afterwards, Polly."

"Ah, got it out of a book? Why, you are becoming quite a genealogist,
Gammon, I need only say, then, that he did not give a thought to the
title. He chose to earn his own bread, and live his own life, like
ordinary mortals. He took the name of Clover. Of course, you see why."

"Hanged if I do," said Gammon.

"Why, my dear fellow, are not clover and trefoil the same things? Don't
you see? Trefoyle. Only a little difference of accent."

"Never heard the word. Did you, Polly?"

"Not me."

"Ah! not unnatural. An out-of-the-way word." Greenacre hid his contempt
beneath a smile. "Well now, I repeat that Lord Polperro longs to return
to the bosom of his family. He has even gone in the darkness of the
night to look at his wife's abode, and returned home in misery. A fact!
At this moment--your attention, I beg--I am assisting him to form a
plan by which he will be enabled to live a natural life without the
unpleasantness of public gossip. I do not yet feel at liberty to
describe our project, but it is ripening. What I ask you is this. Will
you trust us? Miss Sparkes, have I your confidence?"

"It's all very well," threw in Gammon, before Polly could reply. "But
what if he drops down dead, as you say he might do? What about his
family then?"

"Gammon," replied the other with great solemnity, "I asked whether I
had your confidence. Do you, or do you not, believe me when I tell you
that Lord Polperro has long since executed a will by which not only are
his wife and his daughter amply--most amply--provided for, but even
more distant relatives on his wife's side?"

He gazed impressively at Miss Sparkes, whose eyes twinkled as she
turned with a jerk to Gammon.

"Look here, Greenacre," exclaimed the man of commerce, "let's be
business-like. I may trust you, or I may not. What I want to know is,
how long are we to wait before he comes to the shop down yonder and
behaves like an honest man? Just fix a date, and I'll make a note of
it."

"My dear Gammon--"

"Go ahead!"

"I cannot fix a date on my own responsibility. It depends so greatly on
his lordship's health. I can only assure you that at the earliest
possible moment Lady Polperro will be summoned to an interview with her
husband. By the by, I trust her ladyship is quite well?"

"Oh, she's all right," replied Gammon impatiently.

"And the Honourable Minnie Trefoyle--she, too, enjoys good health, I
trust?"

Polly and Gammon exchanged a stare, followed by laughter, which was a
little forced on the man's part.

"That's Miss Clover," he remarked. "Sounds queer, doesn't it?"

"That's her _reel_ name?" cried Polly.

"Indeed it is, Miss Sparkes," replied Greenacre. "But let me remind
you--if it is not impertinent--that beauty and grace can very well
afford to dispense with titles. I think, Gammon, you and I know a case
in point."

Polly tossed her head and shuffled her feet, well pleased with the
men's laughter.

"And if it comes to that," Greenacre pursued, "I don't mind saying,
Gammon, that I suspect you to be a confoundedly lucky and enviable dog.
May I congratulate him, Miss Sparkes?"

"Oh, you can if you like, Mr.--I forget your name."

"I do so then, Gammon. I congratulate you, and I envy you. Heigh-ho!
I'm a lonely bachelor myself, Miss Sparkes--no, hang it, Miss Polly.
You may well look pityingly at me."

"I'm sure I don't, Mr.--I can't remember your name," answered Polly
with a delighted giggle.

"See here, Greenacre," Gammon interposed genially, "Miss Sparkes and I
will have to talk this over. Mind you, I give no promise. I found out
for myself who Mr. Clover was, and I hold myself free to do what I
think fit. You quite understand?"

Greenacre nodded absently. Then he cleared his throat.

"I quite understand, my dear boy. I should like just to remind you that
there's really nothing to be gained, one way or the other, by
interfering with Lord Polperro before he has made his plans. The ladies
would in no way be benefited, and it's very certain no one else would
be. No doubt you'll bear that in mind."

"Of course I shall. You may take it from me, Greenacre, that I'm
tolerably wide awake. Can I still address you at the Bilboes?"

"You can," was the grave and dignified reply. "And now, as I happen to
have an appointment at the other end of the town, I really must say
good-bye. I repeat, Miss Sparkes, you may trust me absolutely. I have
your interests and those of my friend Gammon--the same thing
now--thoroughly at heart. You will hear from his lordship, Miss
Sparkes--no, hang it, Miss Polly. You will very soon have a line from
his lordship, who, I may venture to say, is really attached to you. He
speaks of you all most touchingly. Good evening, Miss Polly, not
good-bye; we are to meet again very soon. And who knows all the happy
changes that are before you. Ta-ta, Gammon. Rely upon me; I never
failed a friend yet."

So saying he took his leave with bows and flourishes. Shortly after
Polly and Gammon went into the superior room of the tavern and had tea
together, talking at a great rate, one as excited as the other. Miss
Sparkes being already attired for her evening duties they parted only
when they were obliged to do so, agreeing to meet again when Polly left
the theatre.

To pass this interval of time Mr. Gammon dropped into a music-hall. He
wished to meditate on what had come to his knowledge. Had it not been
that Lord Polperro was, in a sense, a public institution, and could not
escape him, he would have felt uneasy about the doings of that
remarkable fellow Greenacre; as it was, he preferred to muse on the
advantages certain to befall Minnie and her mother, and perchance Polly
Sparkes. After all, the niece of a lord must benefit substantially by
the connexion, and by consequence that young lady's husband. No one
could have been freer from secondary motives than he, when he found
himself falling in love with Polly; and if it turned out a marriage of
unforeseen brilliancy, why, so much the better. Polly had not altered
towards him--dear, affectionate girl that she was I He would act
honourably; she should have the chance of reconsidering her position;
but--

A damsel, sparingly clad, was singing in the serio-comic vein, with a
dance after each stanza. As he sipped his whisky, and watched and
listened, Gammon felt his heart glow within him. The melody was
lulling; it had a refrain of delicious sentiment. The listener's eyes
grew moist; there rose a lump in his throat. Dear Polly! Lovely Polly!
Would he not cherish her to the day of his death? How could he have
fancied that he loved anyone else? Darling Polly!

When the singer withdrew he clapped violently, and thereupon called for
another Scotch hot, with lemon.

As a matter of course a friend soon discovered him, a man who declared
himself in a whisper "stonebroke," and said, after a glass of the usual
beverage, that if the truth must be told he had looked in here this
evening to save himself from the torments of despair. Three young
children, and the missus just going to have another. Did Gammon know of
any opening in the cork line?

"Afraid not," replied the traveller, "but I know a man out Hoxton way
who's pushing a new lamp-glass cleaner. You might give him a look in.
It goes well, I'm told, in the eastern suburbs."

Presently a coin of substantial value passed from Gammon's pocket into
that of his gloomy friend.

"Poor devil!" said the good fellow to himself. "He married a
tripe-dresser's daughter, and she nags him. Never had a chance to marry
a jolly little girl who turned out to have a lord for her uncle!"

So he drank and applauded, and piped his eye and drank again, till it
was time to meet Polly. When he went forth into the cold street never
was man more softly amorous, more mirthfully exultant, more kindly
disposed to all the dwellers upon earth. Life abounds in such forms of
happiness, yet we are told that it is a sad and sorry affair!




CHAPTER XIX

NOT IN THE SECRET


Since his adventure in knight-errantry Christopher Parish had suffered
terrible alternations of hope and despair. For fear of offending Miss
Sparkes he did not press for an explanation of the errand on which she
had sent him enough that he was again permitted to see her, to
entertain her modestly, and to hold her attention whilst he discoursed
on the glories of the firm of Swettenham. Every week supplied him with
new and astounding Swettenham statistics. He was able to report, as "an
absolute fact," that a junior member of the firm--a junior, mind
you--was building a house at Eastbourne which would cost him, all told,
not one penny less than sixty-five thousand pounds! He would like to
see that house; in fact, he must see it. When Easter came round would
Miss Sparkes honour him with her company on a day trip to Eastbourne,
that they might gaze together on the appalling mansion?

"P'r'aps," replied Polly, "if you're good."

Whereat Mr. Parish perspired with ecstasy, and began at once to plan
the details of the outing.

Indeed, Polly was very gracious to him, and presently something
happened which enhanced her graciousness--perhaps increased her genuine
liking for the amiable young man. Her friend, Miss Waghorn, was about
to be married to Mr. Nibby. It was a cheerless time of the year for a
wedding, but Mr. Nibby had just come in for a little legacy, on the
strength of which he took a house in a southeast suburb, and furnished
it on the hire system, with a splendour which caused Miss Waghorn to
shriek in delight, and severely tested the magnanimity of Polly's
friendship. Polly was to be a bridesmaid, and must needs have a
becoming dress but where was it to come from? Her perfidious uncle had
vanished (she knew not yet _who_ that uncle really was), and her "tips"
of late had been--in Polly's language--measly. In the course of
friendly chat she mentioned to Mr. Parish that the wedding was for that
day week, and added, with head aside, that she couldn't imagine what
she was going to wear.

"I shall patch up some old dress, I s'pose. Lucky it's dark weather."

Christopher became meditative, and seemed to shirk the subject. But on
the morrow there arrived for Polly a letter addressed in his
handwriting--an envelope rather--which contained two postal orders,
each for one pound, but not a word on the paper enfolding them.

"Well now," cried Polly within herself, "if that ain't gentlemanly of
him! Who'd a' thought it! And me just going to put my bracelet away!"

By which she meant that she was about to pawn her jewellery to procure
a bridesmaid's dress. Gratitude, for the moment, quite overcame her.
She sat down and wrote a letter of thanks, so worded that the recipient
was beside himself for a whole day. He in turn wrote a letter of three
full sheets, wherein, among other lyrical extravagances, he expressed a
wish that by dying a death of slow torture he could endow Miss Sparkes
with fabulous wealth. How gladly would he perish, knowing that she
would come to lay artificial flowers upon his grave, and to the end of
her life see that the letters on his tombstone were kept legible.

So Polly made a handsome appearance at the wedding. As a matter of
fact, she came near to exciting unpleasantness between bride and
bridegroom, so indiscreet was Mr. Nibby in his spoken and silent
admiration. After consuming a great deal of indifferent champagne at
Mr. Nibby's lodgings the blissful couple departed to spend a week at
Bournemouth, and Polly returned to the room in Shaftesbury Avenue,
which henceforth she would occupy alone. "And a good riddance!" she
said to herself pettishly as she stripped off her wedding garments.

On this very evening she wrote to Mr. Gammon--the letter he was never
to read.

Mr. Gammon had received an invitation to the ceremony, but through
pressure of business was unable to accept it. He felt, too, that there
would have been awkwardness in thus meeting with Polly for the first
time since their rupture on the Embankment.

Polly, of course, concluded that he kept away solely because he did not
wish to see her. In the mood induced by this reflection, and by the
turbid emotions natural to such a day, she penned her farewell to the
insulting and perfidious man. Mr. Gammon was informed that never and
nowhere would Miss Sparkes demean herself by exchanging another word
with him; that he was a low and vulgar and ignorant person, without
manners enough for a road-scraper; moreover, that she had long since
been the object of _sincere_ attentions from someone so vastly his
superior that they were not to be named in the same month. This
overflow of feeling was some relief, but Polly could not rest until she
had also written to Mrs. Clover. She made known to her aunt that Mr.
Gammon had of late been guilty of such insolent behaviour to her (the
writer) that she had serious thoughts of seeking protection from the
police. "As he is such a great friend of yours and Minnie's, I thought
I had better warn you. Perhaps you might like to try and teach him
better behaviour, though I can't say as you are the person to do it.
And you may be pleased to hear that I should not wonder if I am shortly
to be married to a _gentleman_, which it won't surprise you after that
if I am unable to see anything more of you and your family."

But for a violent storm which broke out after eleven that night, just
as she finished these compositions, Polly would have posted them
forthwith, and Mr. Gammon would in that case have received his letter
by the first post next morning. As it was they remained in Polly's room
all night, and only an hour or two after their actual dispatch came the
fateful telegram which was to make such a revolution in Miss Sparkes'
sentiments and prospects. Mrs. Clover duly received her missive, and
gave a good deal of thought to it, Being a woman of some self-command
she spoke no word of the matter to Minnie nor, though greatly tempted,
did she pen a reply, but in a few days she sent a quiet invitation to
Polly's father, desiring the pleasure of his company at tea on Sunday.

Mr. Sparkes came. He was in very low spirits, for during the past week
Chaffey's had disgraced itself (if Chaffey's _could_ now be disgraced)
by supplying a supper at eighteen-pence per head, exclusive of liquors,
to certain provincial representatives of the Rag, Bone, and Bottle
Dealers' Alliance in town for the purpose of attending a public
meeting. He called it 'art-breaking, he did. The long and short of it
was, he must prepare himself--and Chaffey's--for the inevitable
farewell. Why, it wasn't as if they had supplied the rag-tags with a
_good_ supper. You should have seen the stuff put before them; every
blessed dish a hash-up of leavings and broken meats. No man with a
vestige of self-respect could continue to wait at such entertainments.
And this amid the gilding and the plush and the marble-topped tables,
which sickened one with their surface imitation of real rest'rants.

"Wouldn't you like to retire into private life, Ebenezer?" asked his
hostess. "I'm sure you _could_, couldn't you?"

"Well, Louisa," he replied with hesitation, "if it comes to that, I
_could_. But I hardly know how I should spend my time."

The conversation turned to the subject of Polly, and, as they were
alone together, Mrs. Clover exhibited the letter she had received from
that young lady.

"Now what have you to say to that, Ebenezer? Don't you call it
shameful?"

Mr. Sparkes sighed deeply.

"I've warned her, Louisa, I've warned her solemn. What more can I do?"

"You see how she goes on about Mr. Gammon. Now I'm as sure as I am of
anything that it's all lies. I don't believe Mr. Gammon has insulted
her. There was something happened before she left Mrs. Bubb's--a bit of
unpleasantness there's no need to talk about; but I'm as sure as I sit
here, Ebenezer, that Mr. Gammon wouldn't insult any girl in the way
Polly says."

"Why don't you ask him?"

Mrs. Clover glanced at the door and betrayed uneasiness.

"To tell you the truth he doesn't come here just now. You won't let it
go any further, Ebenezer, but the truth is he began to take a sort of
fancy to Minnie, and he told me about it, just as he ought to a'done,
and I had to tell him plain that it wasn't a bit of use. For one thing
Minnie was too young, and what's more, she hadn't even given half a
thought to him in _that_ way; and I wouldn't have the child worried
about such things, because, as you know, she's delicate, and it doesn't
take much to upset her in her mind, and then she can't sleep at nights.
So I told Mr. Gammon plain and straight, and he took it in the right
spirit, but he hasn't been here since. And I'm as sure as anything that
Polly's letter is a nasty, mean bit of falsehood, though I'm sorry to
have to say it to you, Ebenezer."

Mr. Sparkes had the beginning of a cold in the head, which did not tend
to make him cheerful. Sitting by the fireside, very upright in his
decent suit of Sunday black, he looked more than ever like a clergyman,
perchance a curate who is growing old without hope of a benefice.
Fortunately there entered about tea-time a young man in much better
spirits, evidently a welcome friend of Mrs. Clover's; his name was
Nelson. On his arrival Minnie joined the company, and it would have
been remarked by anyone with an interest in the affairs of the family
that Mrs. Clover was not at all reluctant to see her daughter and this
young man amiably conversing. Mr. Nelson had something not unlike the
carriage and tone of a gentleman; he talked quietly, though
light-heartedly, and from remarks he let fall it appeared that he was
somehow connected with the decorative arts. Minnie and he dropped into
a discussion of some new ceramic design put forth by Doulton's; they
seemed to understand each other, and grew more animated as they
exchanged opinions. The hostess, meanwhile, kept glancing at them with
a smile of benevolence.

At the tea table Mr. Nelson gratified Mr. Sparkes by an allusion to
almost the only topic--apart from Chaffey's--which could draw that
grave man into continuous speech. Mr. Sparkes had but one recreation,
that of angling; for many years he had devoted such hours of summer
leisure as Chaffey's granted him to piscatory excursions, were it only
as far as the Welsh Harp. Finding this young man disposed to lend a
respectful ear, and to venture intelligent questions, he was presently
discoursing at large.

"Chub? Why chub's a kind of carp, don't you see. There's no fish pulls
harder than a chub, not in the ordinary way of fishing. A chub he'll
pull just like a little pig; he will indeed, if you believe me."

"And a jack, uncle," put in Minnie, who liked to please the old man.
"Doesn't a jack pull hard?"

"Well, it's like this, my dear; it depends on the bottom when it's
jack. If the bottom's weedy--see?--you must keep your line tight on a
jack. Let him run and you're as like as not to lose thirty or forty
yards of your line."

"And the lines are expensive, aren't they, uncle?"

"Well, my dear, I give eighteen and six for my preserved jack
line--hundred yards. Eighteen and six!"

There followed one of his old stories, of a jack which had been eating
up young ducklings on a certain pond; how he had baited for this fellow
with a live duckling, the hook through the tips of its wings, got him
in twenty minutes, and he turned the scale at four-and-twenty pounds.
Roach and perch were afterwards discussed. In Mr. Sparkes' opinion the
best bait for these fish was a bit of dough kneaded up with loose wool.
Chaffey's--at all events, Chaffey's of to-day--would not have known its
head waiter could it have seen and heard him as he thus held forth. The
hostess showed a fear lest Mr. Nelson should have more than enough of
Cockney angling; but he and Minnie were at one in good-natured
attentiveness, and in the end Mrs. Clover overcame her uneasiness.

A few days after this Minnie's mother, overcoming a secret scruple and
yielding to a long desire, allowed herself to write a letter to Mr.
Gammon. It was a very simple, not ill-composed letter; its object to
express regret for the ill temper she had shown, now many weeks ago, on
her parting with Mr. Gammon in Kennington Road. Would he not look in at
the china shop just in the old way? It would please her very much, for
indeed she had never meant or dreamt a termination to their friendship.
They had known each other so long. Would not Mr. Gammon overlook her
foolishness, remembering all she had had to go through? So she signed
herself his "friend always the same," and having done so looked at the
last line rather timidly, and made haste to close the letter.

An answer arrived without undue delay, and Mrs. Clover went apart to
read it, her breath quicker than usual, and her fingers tremulous. Mr.
Gammon wrote with unfeigned cordiality, just like himself. He hoped to
call very soon, though it might still be a few weeks. There was nothing
to forgive on his part; he wasn't such a fool as to be angry with an
old friend for a few hasty words. But the truth was he had a lot of
business on his hands; he was doing his best to get into a permanency
at Quodlings' of Norton Folgate, and he knew Mrs. Clover would be glad
to hear that. Let her give his kind regards to Miss Minnie, and believe
him when he said that he was just as friendly disposed as ever.

Beneath these words Mrs. Clover naturally enough detected nothing of
the strange experiences in which Mr. Gammon was involved. "Kind regards
to Minnie." Yes, there was the explanation of his silence. He called
her his "old friend," a phrase of double meaning. Mrs. Clover, in spite
of her good sense, was vexed, and wished he had not said "old." Why,
had she not a year or two the advantage of him in youthfulness?




CHAPTER XX

THE HUSBAND'S RETURN


Gammon would gladly have answered in person Mrs. Clover's letter, but
he had promised Polly that he would neither visit the china shop nor in
any way communicate with her aunt. Polly had made a great point of
this, and he thought the reason was not far to seek; she still
harboured jealousy of her cousin, and no doubt it would be delightful
to make known, just how and when she herself saw fit, her triumph over
Minnie. So he kept away from Battersea Park Road, though often wishing
to spend an evening there in the old way, with Mrs. Clover's bright
face on one side of him and Minnie's modestly bent head on the other.

It would have been so restful after all this excitement, for however he
tried to grasp the facts, Mrs. Clover and Minnie still seemed remote
from the world of wealth and titles; he could not change their names or
see them in any other position than that which was familiar and
natural. In talk with Polly he always rose to hilarious anticipations,
partly the result of amorous fervour; but this mood did not survive
their parting. Alone he was frequently troubled with uneasiness, with
misgiving, more so as the days went by without bringing any news from
Greenacre. Under the cover of night he visited Lowndes Mansions and
hung about there for half an hour, like unto one with sinister
intentions; but his trouble profited him nothing. Polly was growing
impatient. After the manner of her kind she brooded on suspicions, and
hatched numerous more or less wild conjectures. What if Greenacre had
spirited Lord Polperro away for some dark purpose of his own? Gammon
himself could not help suspecting the mysterious man of deep projects
which would tend to the disadvantage of Lord Polperro's forsaken wife
and child. At the end of a fortnight he wrote to Greenacre at the
Bilboes pressing for information. To his surprise and satisfaction this
brought about an interview on the following day. Greenacre seemed
radiant with a good conscience.

"All is going well," he declared. "Our noble friend is improving in
health, temporarily, at all events. Doubtless it is the result of
having his mind more at ease. You can't imagine, Gammon, how that man
has been tormented by remorse. I am not yet at liberty to disclose his
plans. But I shall certainly be so very soon--very soon. I won't say
Christmas, but before New Year's Day I feel confident I shall have got
things completely in order. I will only hint to you that his lordship
wishes to retire from the world, to live a perfectly quiet and simple
domestic life in a locality which will be favourable to his health. You
will agree with us, I know, that this is far better than trying to
brave the gossip and scandal of society. I may now tell you, in strict
confidence, that our friend has already written a letter to his wife,
ready to be posted as soon as ever the last details are settled. By the
by, Gammon, I hope there can be no doubt as to Lady Polperro's
willingness to concur in what her husband proposes?"

"I don't know anything about that," Gammon replied. "I can't answer for
her."

"Naturally. Of course not. But I hope there will be no unexpected
difficulty on that side. Lord Polperro has his fears, which I have done
my best to dispel. We can but hope, put our trust in the forgiving
nature of woman."

It now wanted but a very short time to Christmas. As the day drew near
Gammon felt that this state of worrying suspense was growing
intolerable. Polly's suspicions were louder, her temper became
uncertain; once or twice she forgot herself and used language
calculated to cause a breach of the peace. On these occasions Gammon
found himself doubting whether she really was the girl after his own
heart; he could have wished that she had rather less spirit. Overcome
by her persistence, he at length definitely engaged to wait no longer
than the end of the year. If by that time Greenacre had not put things
in order, Polly was to seek her aunt and make known all that they had
discovered.

"We won't be 'umbugged!" she exclaimed. "And it begins to look to me
jolly like 'umbugging. I don't know what _you_ think."

Gammon admitted that the state of things was very unsatisfactory, and
must come to an end. The last day of the year--so be it. After that
Polly should have her way.

It was the middle of Christmas week. A letter to the Bilboes remained
without answer. Gammon and Polly met every day, excited each other,
lost their tempers, were stormily reconciled. On the morning of the
thirty-first Gammon received four letters begging for pecuniary
assistance, but nothing from Greenacre. He had slept badly, his
splendid health was beginning to suffer. By jorrocks! there should be
an end of this, and that quickly.

As he loitered without appetite over a particularly greasy breakfast,
listening to Mrs. Bubb's description of an ailment from which her
youngest child was suffering, Moggie came into the kitchen and said
that a young man wished to see him. Gammon rushed up to the front door,
where, in mist and drizzle, stood a muscular youth whom he did not
recognize.

"I'm come from Mrs. Clover's, sir," said this messenger, touching his
hat. "She'd be very glad to see you as soon as you could make it
convenient to look round."

"Is that all?"

That was all; nothing more could be learnt from the young man, and
Gammon promised to come forthwith. Luckily he could absent himself from
Quodlings' to-day with no great harm; so after a few words with Mrs.
Bubb he pulled on his greatcoat and set off by the speediest way. Only
after starting did he remember his promise to Polly. That could not be
helped. The case seemed to be urgent, and he must beg for indulgence.
He had an appointment with Polly for six o'clock this evening. In the
excitement of decisive action (it being the last day of the year) she
would probably overlook this small matter.

He found Mrs. Clover in the shop. She reddened at sight of him, and
after a hurried greeting asked him to step into the parlour, where she
carefully closed the door.

"Mr. Gammon, have you heard anything about my husband?"

The question disconcerted him; he tried ineffectually to shape a denial.

"You have, I can see you have! It doesn't matter. I don't want you to
tell me anything. But he's now in this house."

She was greatly agitated, not angry, but beset by perplexities and
distress.

"He came last night about ten o'clock--came to the door wrapped up like
a stranger--it was almost too much for me when I heard his voice. He
wanted to come in--to stay; and of course I let him. Minnie had to
know, poor girl. He's in the spare room. Did you know he meant to come?"

"I? Hadn't an idea of it, Mrs. Clover!"

"But you know something about him. He tells me you do. He wants to see
you. There's only one thing I ask--has he been doing wrong? Oh, do tell
me that!"

Gammon protested that he knew nothing of the kind, and added that he
had only seen the man once, for a minute, now more than a month ago.

"And you kept it from me!" said his friend reproachfully. "I didn't
think you'd have done that, Mr. Gammon!"

"There was a reason. I shouldn't have thought of doing it if there
hadn't been a good reason."

"Never mind. I won't interfere. I feel as if it had nothing to do with
me. Will you go upstairs to him? He looks to me as if he hadn't very
long to live, indeed he does. Listen, that's his cough! Oh, I am so
upset. It came so sudden. And to think you'd seen him and never told
me! Never mind, go up to him, if you will, and see what he wants with
you."

Gammon did her bidding. He ascended lightly and tapped at the door Mrs.
Clover indicated. A cough sounded from within; then a voice which the
visitor recognized, saying, "Come in." On the bed, but fully dressed,
lay a tall, meagre man, with a woollen comforter about his neck. The
room was in good order, and warmed by a fire, which the sufferer's
condition seemed to make very necessary. He fixed his eyes on Gammon,
as if trying to smile, but defeated in the effort by pain and misery.

"I'm here, you see," he said hoarsely. "There's no doubt about me now."

"Got a bad cold, eh?" replied the other, as cheerfully as he could.

"Yes, a cold. Always have a cold. Would you mind reaching me the
kettle?"

He poured out some brandy from a bottle which stood on the floor, and
mixed it with a little hot water. Gammon the while observed him with
much curiosity. In five years or a little more he had become an old and
feeble man; his thin hair was all but completely grey, his flesh had
wasted and discoloured, his hand trembled, his breath came with
difficulty. Present illness accounted perhaps for the latter symptoms;
but, from that glimpse of him in Norton Folgate, Gammon had known that
he was much aged and shaken. Hat, overcoat, and muffler had partly
disguised what was now evident. He spoke with the accent of an educated
man, and in the tone of one whom nature has endowed with amiable
qualities. The bottle beside him seemed to explain certain
peculiarities of his manner. When he had drunk thirstily he raised
himself to a sitting posture, and nodded to his visitor an invitation
to take a chair.

"I'm here, you see, Gammon. Here at last."

"Why did you come?"

"Why?--ah, why indeed!"

Having sighed out this ejaculation he seemed to grow absent, to forget
that he was not alone. A violent cough shook him into wakefulness
again; he stared at Gammon with red eyes full of pain and fear, and
said thickly:

"Are you an honest man--you?

"Well, I hope so; try to be."

"What's his name? You know him, don't you?"

"Do you mean Greenacre?" asked Gammon, feeling very uncomfortable, for
the man before him looked like one who struggles for his last breath.

"Greenacre, yes. What has he told you about me?"

Gammon answered with the simple truth; the situation alarmed him, and
he would have nothing more to do with conspiracy in such a case. He
could not feel sure that his explanations were followed and understood;
now and then the bloodshot eyes turned blankly to him as if in a
drunken dream; but in the end he saw a look of satisfaction.

"You're an honest man, aren't you? We used to know each other, you know
when. My wife likes you, doesn't she?"

"We've always been friends, of course," Gammon replied.

"Would you mind giving me the kettle?" He mixed another glass of
brandy, spilling a great deal in the process. "I don't offer you any,
Greenacre, it's medicine; I take it as such. One doesn't offer one's
friends a glass of medicine, you know, Greenacre."

"My name is Gammon."

"What am I thinking about! There was something I wanted to ask you.
Yes, of course. Does she know?"

"You mean does your wife know who you really are?" said Gammon in a
cautious voice.

"Haven't you told her?"

"Not yet."

"Then I don't think anyone else has."

The man had fallen back upon the pillow. He began to cough, struggled
to raise himself, and became seated on the edge of the bed.

"Well, it's time we were going."

"Where to?" asked Gammon.

The other stared at him in surprise and distress.

"Surely I haven't to tell you all over again! Weren't you listening?
You're a man of business, are you not? Surely you ought to have a clear
head the first thing in the morning."

"Just tell me again in a word or two. What can I do for you? Do you
want to see anybody?"

"Yes, yes, I remember." He laid a hand on his companion's shoulder.
"The matter stands thus, Greenacre I trust you implicitly, once more I
assure you of that; but it is absolutely necessary for me to see a
solicitor."

"All right. What's his name?"

"I'll tell you, Cuthbertson--Old Jewry Chambers. But first of all let
us come to an understanding about that man Quodling. I called upon his
brother--why, I told you all that before, didn't I?"

"You had just been there when I met you in Norton Folgate," said
Gammon, who felt that before long his own wits would begin to wander.

"To be sure. And now we really must be going."

He stood up staggering, gained his balance, and walked to the window.
The prospect thence seemed to recall him to a consciousness of the
actual present, and he looked round appealingly, distressfully.

"I tell you what it is," said Gammon. "You ought to get into bed and
have a doctor. Shall I help you?"

"No, no; I regret that I came here, Greenacre. I am not welcome; how
could I expect to be? If I am going to be ill it mustn't be here."

"Then let me get a cab and take you to your own place, if your wife is
willing."

"That would be best. The truth is I feel terribly queer, Greenacre.
Suppose I--suppose I died here? Of course, I ought never to have come.
Think of the talk there would be; and that's just what I wanted to
spare them, the talk and the disgrace. It can all be managed by my
solicitor. But I felt that come I must. After all, you see, it's home.
You understand that? It's really my home. I've been here often at
night, just to see the house. The wonder is that I didn't come in
before. Of course, I knew I couldn't be welcome--but one's wife and
child, Greenacre. The real wife, whether the other's alive or not."

Gammon started.

"What did you say?" he asked in a whisper.

"Nothing--nothing. You are a good fellow, I am sure, and my wife likes
you, that's quite enough. The point is this now, I must destroy that
will, and get Cuthbertson to draw a deed of gift, all in order, you
know, but nothing that could get wind and make a scandal. The will
would be publicly known, I ought to have remembered that. I repeat,
Greenacre, that what I have to do is to provide for them both without
causing them any trouble or disgrace."

Catching the listener's eye he became silent and confused for a moment,
then added quickly:

"I beg your pardon. I addressed you by the wrong name. Gammon, I meant
to say. Gammon, my wife's friend, a thoroughly honest man. Have I made
myself clear, Gammon? I--you see how the matter stands?"

Gammon was beginning to see that the matter stood in a perilous
position, and that the sooner Mr. Cuthbertson--if such a person
existed--could be brought on to the scene the better for every one
concerned. He asked himself whether he ought to summon Mrs. Clover. His
glance towards the door must have betrayed his thought, for the sick
man spoke as though in reply to it.

"We will say nothing to her yet, if you please. I--I begin to feel a
little better. Our long confidential talk has done me good. By the by,
Greenacre--I beg your pardon, Gammon--you quite understand that it is
all in the strictest confidence. I trust you implicitly as my dear
wife's friend; it is all in her interests, as you see. I think now, if
you would kindly get a cab--yes, I feel quite equal to it now--we will
go to Lowndes Mansions."

The voice was thin, husky, senile; but his tone had more of
rationality, and he appeared to have made up his mind to a course of
action. Gammon presently went downstairs and told Mrs. Clover that her
husband wished to go into town on business. She made no objection, but
asked whether Gammon would take the responsibility of looking after
him. This he promised. Whether the man would return hither or not was
left uncertain.

"If he goes to his own house," said Gammon, "I'll see him safe there
and let you know. He lives in the West End. Now don't upset yourself;
if he doesn't come back you shall know where he is, and if you want to
you shall go and see him. I promise you that. I know all about him, and
so shall you; so just keep yourself quiet. He'll have to go to bed and
stay there; anyone can see that. If you take my advice you'll let us go
out quietly and not speak to him. Just trust to me, Mrs. Clover."

"Do you think he's right in his mind?" she asked.

"Well, he's very shaky, and ought to be kept quiet. What has he told
you?"

"Nothing at all; he sat crying for an hour last night, and talked about
the old times. When I asked questions he put me off. And when I went
into his room this morning he said nothing except that he wanted to see
you, and that he must have some brandy for his cold."

"All right; let us leave the house quietly, and I'll see you again
to-day or to-morrow. Oh, I say, has a man called Greenacre been here at
any time?"

"I don't know anyone of that name," answered Mrs. Clover as she turned
distressfully away.

A cab was summoned, and Gammon, having helped the sick man to clothe
himself warmly in overcoat and muffler, led him from the house. They
drove straightway to Lowndes Mansions.




CHAPTER XXI

HIS LORDSHIP'S WILL


The movement of the vehicle made Lord Polperro drowsy. In ten minutes
he seemed to be asleep, and Gammon had to catch his hat as it was
falling forward. When the four-wheeler jolted more than usual he
uttered groans; once he shouted loudly, and for a moment stared about
him in terror. The man of commerce had never made so unpleasant a
journey in his life.

On arriving at their destination it was with much difficulty that
Gammon aroused his companion, and with still more that he conveyed him
from the cab into the building, a house porter (who smiled
significantly) assisting in the job. Lord Polperro, when thoroughly
awakened, coughed, groaned, and gasped in a most alarming way. His flat
was on the first floor; before reaching it he began to shed tears, and
to beg that his medical man might be called immediately. The door was
opened by a middle-aged woman dressed as a housekeeper, who viewed his
lordship with no great concern. She promised to send a messenger to the
doctor's, and left the two men alone in a room comfortably furnished,
but without elegance or expensiveness. Gammon waited upon the invalid,
placed him at ease by the fireside, and reached him a cellaret from a
cupboard full of various liquors. A few draughts of a restorative
enabled Lord Polperro to articulate, and he inquired if any letters had
arrived for him.

"Look on the writing table, Greenacre. Any thing there?"

There were two letters. The invalid examined them with disappointment
and tossed them aside.

"Beggars and blackmailers," he muttered. "Nobody else writes to me."

Of a sudden it occurred to him that he was forgetting the duties of
hospitality. He urged his guest to take refreshment; he roused himself,
went to the cupboard, brought out half a dozen kinds of beverage.

"And of course you will lunch with me, or will it be dinner? Yes, yes,
luncheon of course. Excuse me for one moment, I must give some orders."

He left the room. Gammon, having tossed off a glass of wine, surveyed
the objects about him with curiosity. An observer of more education
would have glanced with peculiar interest at the books; several volumes
lay on the table, one of them a recent work on gipsies, another dealing
with the antiquities of Cornwall. For the town traveller these things
of course had no significance. But he remarked a painting on the wall,
which was probably a portrait of one of Lord Polperro's ancestors--a
youngish man (the Trefoyle nose, not to be mistaken) in a strange wild
costume, his head bare under a sky blackening to storm, in his hand a
sort of hunting knife, and one of his feet resting on a dead wolf. When
his host reappeared Gammon asked him whom the picture represented.

"That? That's my father--years before I was born. They tell me that he
used to say that in his life he had only done one thing to be proud of.
It was in some part of Russia. He killed a wolf at close quarters--only
a knife to fight with. He was a fine man, my father. Looks it, don't
you think?"

Thirst was upon him again; he drank the first liquor that came to hand,
then sat down and was silent.

"You feel better?" said Gammon.

"Better? Oh, thanks, much the same. I shan't be better till things are
settled. That won't be long. I expected to hear from Greenacre--I think
you said you knew Greenacre?"

"What is he doing for you?" Gammon inquired, thinking he might as well
take advantage of this lucid moment, the result, seemingly, of
alcoholic stimulation.

"Doing? We'll talk of that presently. Mind you, I have complete
confidence in Greenacre. I regret that I didn't know him long ago." He
sighed and began to wander. "My best years gone--gone! You remember
what I was, Gammon? We don't live like other people, something wrong in
our blood; we go down--down. But if I had lived as I was, and let the
cursed title alone! That was my mistake, Greenacre. I had found
happiness--a good wife. You know my wife? What am I saying? Of course
you do. Never an unkind word from her, never one. How many men can say
that? The best woman living, Greenacre."

"You keep forgetting who I am," said his guest bluntly.

Lord Polperro gave him a look of surprise, and with effort cleared his
thoughts.

"Ah, I called you Greenacre. Excuse me, Gammon, my wife's friend. Be
her friend still, a better woman doesn't live, believe me. You will
lunch with me, Gammon. We are to have a long talk. And I want you to go
with me to my solicitor's. I must settle that to-day. I thought
Greenacre would be back. The fact is, you know, I must recover my
health. The south of Europe, Greenacre thinks, and I agree with him. A
place where we can live quietly, my wife and the little girl, no one to
bother us or to gossip. She shall know when we get there, not before.
This climate is bad for me, killing me; in fact, I hope to start in a
few days, just us three, I and my wife and the little girl. She shall
use the title if she likes, if not we'll leave it behind us. Ah, that
was my misfortune, you know. It oughtn't to have come to me."

He was seized with a hiccough, which in a few moments became so violent
that he had to abandon the attempt to converse. When it had lasted for
half an hour Gammon found his position intolerable. He rose, meaning to
leave the room and speak to the housekeeper, but just then the door
opened to admit Lord Polperro's medical attendant. This gentleman,
after a glance at the patient, who was not aware of his presence, put a
few questions to Gammon. The latter than withdrew quietly, went out
from the flat and down into the street where the doctor's carriage
stood waiting. He was bewildered with the novelty of experience, felt
thoroughly out of his element, and would have liked to have escaped
from these complications by simply taking a cab to Norton Folgate and
forgetting all he left behind. But his promise to Mrs. Clover (or Lady
Polperro) forbade this. He was very curious as to the proceedings of
that mysterious fellow Greenacre, who, as likely as not, had got Lord
Polperro into his power for rascally purposes. What was that half-heard
allusion to another wife, who might be alive or dead? Nothing to cause
astonishment assuredly, but the matter ought to be cleared up.

He crossed the street and walked up and down, keeping his eye on
Lowndes Mansions. Before long the doctor came out and drove away. After
much indecision Gammon again entered and knocked at the door of his
noble friend. The housekeeper said that Lord Polperro was asking for
him impatiently. But when he entered the sitting-room there lay his
lordship on the sofa fast asleep.

The sleep lasted for a couple of hours, during which Gammon sat in the
room, bearing tedium as best he could. He was afraid to go away, lest
an opportunity of learning something important should be lost; but
never had time passed so slowly. Some neglect of business was involved,
but fortunately he had no appointment that could not be postponed. As
he said to himself, it was better to "see the thing through," and to
make the most of Greenacre's absence.

When Lord Polperro at length awoke he had command of his intellect
(such as remained to him), but groaned in severe pain. His first
inquiry was whether any letter or telegram had arrived. Assured that
there was nothing he tottered about the room for a few minutes, then
declared that he must go to bed.

"I always feel better in the evening, Gammon. You'll excuse me, I know;
we are old friends. I must see you again to-day; you'll promise to come
back? Oh, how ill I am! I don't think this can go on much longer."

"What did the doctor tell you to do?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," was the irritable reply. "Of course, I must get
away as soon as possible. If only I could hear from Greenacre."

Seeing there was no likelihood of the man's leaving home for the next
few hours Gammon promised to return in the afternoon, and so took his
leave. On the stairs he passed two ladies, who, as he learnt in a
moment by the sound of their knock above, were making a call upon the
invalid. In the street stood their carriage. He watched it for some
time from the other side of the way until the ladies came forth again.
It would have soothed Gammon's mind could he have known that they were
Lord Polperro's sister and his niece.

Just as the brief daylight was flickering out (the air had begun to nip
with a threat of frost) he once more presented himself at Lowndes
Mansions. In the meantime he had seen Polly Sparkes, informed her of
what was happening, and received her promise that she would take no
step until he could communicate with her again. This interview revived
his spirits; he felt equal to another effort such as that of the
morning--which had taxed him more than the hardest day's work he was
ever called upon to do.

Lord Polperro again sat by the fireside with a decanter and glass
within his reach. He was evidently more at ease, but seemed to have a
difficulty in recognizing his visitor.

"Have you come from Greenacre?" he asked cautiously, peering through
the dull light.

"I don't know anything about him."

"No? I cannot understand why I have no news from him. Pray sit down; we
were talking about--"

Presently he shook his recollections into order, and when a lamp was
brought in he began to talk lucidly.

"Gammon, I feel very uneasy in my mind. This morning I quite intended
to have gone and seen Cuthbertson; but I was taken ill, you know. What
is the time? I wonder whether Cuthbertson is likely to be at his office
still?"

"That's your lawyer, isn't it? Would you like me to go and try to get
hold of him? I might bring him here."

"You are very kind, Gammon. For some reason I feel that I really ought
to see him to-day. Suppose we go together?"

"But you oughtn't to be out at night, ought you?"

"Oh, I feel much better. Besides, we shall drive, you know--quite
comfortable. I really think we will go. Then you shall come back and
dine with me. Yes, I think we will go."

Between this decision and the actual step half an hour was wasted in
doubts, fresh resolves, moments of forgetfulness, and slow preparation.
A messenger had been dispatched for a cab, and at length almost by
force Gammon succeeded in getting his lordship down the stairs and out
into the street. They drove to Old Jewry Chambers. Throughout the
journey Lord Polperro kept up a constant babbling, which he meant for
impressive talk; much of it was inaudible to his companion, from the
noise of the cab, and the sentences that could be distinguished were
mere repetitions of what he had said before leaving home--that he felt
it absolutely necessary to see Cuthbertson, and that he could not
understand Greenacre's silence. They reached the solicitor's office at
about half-past five. Lord Polperro entered only to return with a face
of disappointment.

"He has gone. No one there but a clerk--no use."

"Couldn't you find him at his private address?" asked Gammon.

"Private address? to be sure! I'll go in again and ask for it."

Mr. Cuthbertson lived at Streatham.

"I tell you what," said Lord Polperro, whose mind seemed to be
invigorated by his activity, "we'll go to Streatham, but first of all
we must have something to eat. The fact is, I had no lunch; I begin to
feel rather faint."

He bade the cabman drive to any restaurant not far away. There the
vehicle was dismissed, and they sat down to a meal. Gammon as usual ate
heartily. Lord Polperro pretended to do the same but in reality
swallowed only a few mouthfuls, and gave his more serious attention to
the wine. Every few minutes he assured his companion in a whisper that
he would feel quite at ease when he had seen Cuthbertson.

They looked out the trains to Streatham, and left just in time to catch
one. On the journey his lordship dozed. He was growing very husky
again, and the cough shook him badly after each effort to talk, so
Gammon felt glad to see him resting. By the gaslight in the railway
carriage his face appeared to flush and go pale alternately; at moments
it looked horribly cadaverous with its half-open eyes, shrivelled lips,
and thin, sharp, high-ridged nose. On arriving the man lost all
consciousness of where he was and what he purposed; it took many
minutes before Gammon could convey him into a cab and extort from him
Mr. Cuthbertson's address.

"Greenacre," his lordship kept repeating, "I trust you implicitly. I am
convinced you have my interests at heart. When all is settled I shall
show myself grateful--believe me."

Between seven and eight o'clock they drove up to a house on Streatham
Hill, and without consulting Lord Polperro, Gammon went to parley at
the door. Ill luck pursued them. Mr. Cuthbertson was dining in town,
and could not be home till late. When made to understand this Lord
Polperro passed from lethargy to violent agitation.

"We must go back at once!" he exclaimed. "To Lowndes Mansions at once
Greenacre, tell him to drive straight to Sloane Street. You don't know
what depends upon it. We must lose not a moment."

The cabman consented, and the return journey began at a good speed.
When Gammon, out of regard for the invalid's condition, insisted on
having the window of the hansom dropped, Lord Polperro grumbled and
lamented. The cool air did him good; he was beginning to breathe more
easily than he had done for a long time.

"You are too imperious with me, Greenacre. I have noticed it in you
before. You take too much upon yourself."

"I suppose it's no use telling you once more," said his companion,
"that my name isn't Greenacre."

"Dear me! dear me! I beg your pardon a thousand times. I meant to say
Gammon. I can't tell you, Gammon, how much I feel your kindness. But
for you I should never have managed all this in my state of health. You
don't mind coming home with me?"

"Of course not. What are you going to do when you get there?"

"I told you, my dear Gammon, it shall be done this very night, whether
I have news or not. I shall see Cuthbertson the first thing to-morrow,
and get him to draw the deed of gift. That settles everything; no
gossip, no scandal, if anything should happen. Life is so uncertain,
and as you see I am in anything but robust health. Yes, it shall be
done this very night."

Tired of futile questioning Gammon resolved to wait and see what was
done, though it seemed to him more than likely that nothing at all
would come of these vehement expressions. At all events Lord Polperro
was now wide awake, and seemed in no danger of relapsing into the
semi-comatose or semi-delirious condition. He no longer addressed his
companion by the name of Greenacre; his talk was marked with a rational
reserve; he watched the course of their drive along the highways of
South London, and showed satisfaction as they approached his own
district.

The cabman was paid with careless liberality, and Lord Polperro ran up
the stairs to his flat. More strictly speaking, he ran for a few yards,
when breath failed him, and it was all he could do to stagger with loud
pantings up the rest of the ascent. Arrived in his sitting-room he sank
exhausted on to the nearest chair. Gammon saw that he pointed feebly to
the drink cupboard, and heard a gasp that sounded like "brandy."

"Better not," replied the clear-headed man. "I wouldn't if I were you."

But his lordship insisted, looking reproachfully, and the brandy was
produced. It did him good; that is to say, it brought colour to his
face, and enabled him to sit upright. No sooner was he thus recovered
than his eyes fell upon the envelope of a telegram which lay on his
writing-table.

"There it is, at last!"

He tore the paper, all but sobbing with agony of impatience.

"Good God, I can't see it! I've gone half blind all at once. Read it
for me, Gammon."


"Hope see you to-night. Important news. If not, in morning.--Greenacre."


"Where did he send it from?"

"Euston, six o'clock."

"Then he came by the Irish day-mail. Why didn't I think of that and
meet the train? What does he mean by to-night or to-morrow morning?
What does he _mean_?"

"How can I tell?" replied Gammon. "Perhaps he has called here while you
were away."

Lord Polperro rang the bell, only to find that no one had asked for
him. He was in a state of pitiable agitation, kept shuffling about the
room with coughs and gasps, demanding ceaselessly why Greenacre left
the hour of his appearance uncertain. Gammon, scarcely less excited in
his own way, shouted assurances that the fellow might turn up at any
moment. It was not yet ten o'clock. Why not sit down and wait quietly?

"I will," said the other. "I will thank you, Gammon. I will sit down
and wait. But I cannot conceive why he didn't come straight here from
Euston. I may as well tell you he has been to Ireland for me on
business of the gravest importance. I am not impatient without cause. I
trust Greenacre implicitly. He had a gentleman's education. I am
convinced he could not deceive me."

More brandy helped him to surmount this crisis, then he was silent for
a few minutes. Gammon thought he had begun to doze again, but of a
sudden he spoke distinctly and earnestly.

"I am forgetting. You remember what I had decided to do. It shall be
done at once, Gammon. I know it will relieve my mind."

He rose, went to the writing-table, unlocked a drawer, and took out a
large sealed envelope, on which something was written.

"Gammon, you are witness of what I now do. This is my will, executed
about a year ago. I have reasons for wishing to dispose of my property
in another way. Cuthbertson will see to that for me to-morrow. A will
becomes public. I did not think of that at the time. There!"

He threw the sealed packet into the fire, where it was quickly caught
by the flames and consumed.

"Now I feel easier in mind, much easier."

He drank from the replenished glass, smiling and nodding.




CHAPTER XXII

NEW YEAR'S EVE


Gammon had the strangest sensation. He felt as though he were acting in
a melodrama; he stood in a constrained position, as if the eyes of the
house were upon him; he suffered from a sort of stage fright. Much more
of this kind of thing would assuredly unsettle his wits. To recover
tone he helped himself to a stiff glass of whisky.

"That's right," said his host encouragingly. "Make yourself
comfortable. Greenacre may drop in at any moment. You can't think how
much better I feel, Gammon. So clear in the mind, you know--why, it has
only just occurred to me, this is New Year's Eve."

"So it is. Here's to your health and happiness, Lord Polperro!"

"Thank you, my dear Gammon. I heartily wish you the same. To-morrow, or
at all events in a few days, a new life begins for me, as you know. In
the climate of the south of Europe, with my wife and the little
girl--ah, but for this idiotic title!--I was saying--"

He began to wander unintelligibly, then complained of physical
sufferings, then coughed until he sank in exhaustion.

Time went on. Gammon began to ask himself how long he should wait. At
half-past ten he made a suggestion that his lordship might do worse
than go to bed, but this was ill received.

"By no means. Greenacre may be here at any moment. He will certainly
come to-night. If he doesn't come, do you know what occurs to me? Why
shouldn't we drive into the City and ask whether he has returned?"

"Ask where?"

"He lives at a place--a sort of hotel--which he calls the Bilboes.
Greenacre is eccentric, but thoroughly trustworthy. He had a
gentleman's education."

"He lives there, does he?" exclaimed Gammon.

"Finds it convenient, I suppose. Yes, we will go and inquire--we
certainly will."

Gammon's objections were unheeded. No one could take any harm, said
Lord Polperro, from driving in a closed cab to the City and back. He
would leave directions that if Greenacre called during their absence he
should be asked to wait. So they made ready and went forth, and once
more a hansom bore them through the dark, cold night.

Lord Polperro talked unceasingly, and from his rambling hints it was
not difficult to conjecture the business on which Greenacre had been
dispatched to Ireland. Someone had to be discovered: a doubt as to
whether some person was alive or dead had to be set at rest. Gammon
ventured a few questions, which were answered evasively, but the nature
of his companion's anxiety was by this time clear enough to him. He
felt quite as desirous of meeting Greenacre as Lord Polperro himself.
Every hour spent in this way added to his responsibility, and he had
made up his mind that at the earliest possible moment to-morrow he
would himself see Mr. Cuthbertson, and confide to him everything that
had happened during this extraordinary day.

As the cab ascended Ludgate Hill it passed through crowds of people
moving in the same direction. Gammon was for a moment surprised, then
he called to mind again that it was New Year's Eve; the people were
thronging to hear St. Paul's strike the hour of midnight. Last year he
had himself joined in this celebration. He remembered with a smile that
he reached home by circuitous routes, and after one or two short
intervals of repose on convenient doorsteps. What was more, on that
very night he had first made Greenacre's acquaintance at a bar; they
swore eternal brotherhood, and Greenacre borrowed half a sovereign,
never repaid.

With Gammon's help the cabman found his way to the Bilboes.

"Don't get out," he said to his companion. "I'll ask if he has come."

Lord Polperro suddenly aroused himself and tumbled out of the vehicle;
but for Gammon's attention he would have fallen full length. They
entered together, and by a confused process of inquiry learnt that
Greenacre was still absent.

"Does he live here?" Gammon asked of a waiter whom he had drawn aside.

"He has a bedroom, sir."

Lord Polperro said that he felt a sudden faintness and must take
refreshment. Having drunk, he began to talk in a loud voice about his
private affairs, addressing a stranger who sat by him and whom he took
for Gammon.

"I shall stay here. I shall certainly wait here for Greenacre. I can't
run the risk of missing him to-night."

Gammon caught him by the arm and persuaded him to come out into the
passage; but the only result of this was that Lord Polperro dismissed
the cab, repeating obstinately that he would wait Greenacre's arrival.

"But ten to one he's waiting for us down yonder," urged Gammon.

"He won't wait very long, and we shall pass him on the road if we go
back now. I tell you it is my pleasure to remain here! You forget
yourself, Gammon. I know we are old friends, but you forget our
positions."

The man of commerce laughed contemptuously.

"Look here," he said the next moment. "Let's walk as far as St. Paul's
and have a look at the crowd."

"The crowd? What crowd?"

When he had heard the explanation his lordship readily assented.
Certainly they would stroll as far as St. Paul's and back again, by
that time Greenacre might have come. It seemed probable that when they
had gone a little distance Lord Polperro would feel shaky and consent
to take a cab. Drink, however, had invigorated the man; he reeled a
little and talked very huskily, but declared that the walk was
enjoyable.

"Let's go into the crowd, Gammon. I like a crowd. What are those bells
ringing for? Yes, yes, of course, I remember--New Year's Eve. I had no
idea that people came here to see the New Year in. I shall come again.
I shall come every year; it's most enjoyable."

They entered the Churchyard and were soon amid a noisy, hustling
throng, an assembly composed of clerks and countermen, roughs and
pickpockets, with a sprinkling of well-to-do rowdies, and numerous
girls or women, whose shrieks, screams, and yelps sounded above the
deeper notes of masculine uproar. Gammon, holding tight to his
companion's arm, endeavoured to pilot him in a direction where the
crowd was thinnest, still moving westward; but Lord Polperro caught the
contagion of the tumult and began pressing vehemently into the surging
mass.

"This does me good, Gammon. It's a long time since I've mixed with
people. I always enjoyed a crowd. Holloo--o--o!"

His excited shout made him cough terribly; none the less he pushed on.

"You'll come to harm," said the other. "Don't be a fool; get out of
this."

A struggle began between them; but by this time they were so thickly
encompassed that Gammon had small chance of forcing his companion away.
Lord Polperro did not resent the tugs at his arm; he took it for genial
horseplay, and only shouted louder.

"On we go! This makes one feel alive, eh? Splendid idea to come and see
this. Hollo--o--o!"

Blackguards in front of him were bellowing a filthy song; his lordship
tried to join in the melody. A girl who was jammed against him shot
liquid into his ear out of a squirt, and another of her kind knocked
his hat off; he struggled to recover it, but someone was beforehand
with him and sent the silky headgear flying skyward, after which it was
tossed from hand to hand and then trampled under foot.

"Now you'll catch your bloomin' death of cold," said Gammon. "Stick on
to me and get out of this."

"I'm all right! Leave me alone, can't you! How often have I a damned
chance of enjoying myself?"

It was the first syllable of bad language that Gammon had heard from
Polperro's lips. Struck with the fact, and all the more conscious of
his duty to this high-born madman, he hit on a device for rescuing him
from the crowd.

"Look!" he cried suddenly, "there's Greenacre!"

"Where?" replied the other, all eagerness.

"Just in front; don't you see him? This way; come along, or we shall
lose him."

Flecks of dim white had for some minutes been visible above their
heads; it was beginning to snow. Gammon shouldered his way steadily,
careful not to come into quarrelsome conflict. Polperro hung on behind,
shouting Greenacre's name. This clamour and the loss of his hat drew
attention upon him; he was a mark for squirts and missiles, to say
nothing of verbal insult. St. Paul's struck the first note of twelve,
and from all the bestial mob arose a howl and roar. Polperro happened
to press against a drunken woman; she caught him by his disordered hair
and tugged at it, yelling into his face. To release himself he bent
forward, pushing the woman away; the result was a violent blow from her
fist, after which she raised a shriek as if of pain and terror.
Instantly a man sprang forward to her defence, and he, too, planted his
fist between the eyes of the hapless peer. Gammon saw at once that they
were involved in a serious row, the very thing he had been trying to
avoid. He would not desert his friend, and was too plucky to see him
ill-used with out reprisals. The rough's blows were answered with no
less vigour by the man of commerce.

"Hook it!" shouted Gammon to the tottering Polperro. "Get out of it!"

The clock was still striking; the crowd kept up its brutal blare, aided
by shrill instruments of noise. Only a few people heard Polperro's
shout defying the enemy.

"Let him come on! Let him come on like a man! Take that, you ruffian,
and that!"

Gammon, knowing the conflict grossly unequal, did not scruple to fight
his own way. Polperro, wildly thrashing about him with both fists,
excited wrath in every direction. There was a general scrimmage; shouts
of rage mingled with wild laughter; the throng crushed this way and
that. Grappling in his own defence with a big brute who had clutched
his throat, Gammon saw Polperro go down. It was his last glimpse of the
unfortunate man. Fighting savagely he found himself borne far away by
an irresistible rush, and when he had lost sight of his foe he tried
vainly to return to the place where Polperro had fallen. The police
were now interfering, the crowd swayed more violently than ever, and
began to scatter itself in off-streets.

From church towers of east and west chimes rang merrily for the New
Year. Softly fell the snow from a black sky, and was forthwith trodden
into slush.

Though he was badly mauled and felt sick Gammon would not abandon the
hope of discovering his friend. After resting for a few minutes against
the front of a shop he moved again into the crowd, now much thinner,
and soon to be altogether dispersed. The helmets of policemen drew him
in a certain direction; two constables were clearing the way, and he
addressed them, asking whether they had seen a bareheaded man recently
damaged in a fight.

"There's been a disturbance over yonder," one replied, carelessly
pointing to a spot where other helmets could be discerned.

Thither Gammon made his way. He found police and public gathered
thickly about some person invisible; a vigorous effort and he got near
enough to see a recumbent body, quite still, on which the flakes of
snow were falling.

"Let me look at him," he requested of a constable who would have pushed
him away. "It's a friend of mine, I believe."

Yes, it was Lord Polperro, unconscious, and with blood about his mouth.

The police were waiting as a matter of professional routine to see
whether he recovered his senses; they had, of course, classed him as
"drunk and incapable."

"I say," Gammon whispered to one of them, "let me tell you who that is."

The conference led to the summoning of a cab, which by police direction
was driven to the nearest hospital, St. Bartholomew's. Here Gammon soon
learnt that the case was considered serious, so serious that the
patient has been put to bed and must there remain.

Utterly done up Gammon threw himself into the cab to be driven to
Kennington Road. When he reached Mrs. Bubb's he was fast asleep, but
there a voice addressed him which restored his consciousness very
quickly indeed.




CHAPTER XXIII

HIS LORDSHIP RETIRES


It was the voice of Greenacre, unsteady with wrath, stripped utterly of
its bland intonations.

"So here you are! What have you been up to, Gammon? Are you drunk?"

Just as the cab drove up Greenacre was turning reluctantly from the
house door, where he had held a warm parley with Mrs. Bubb; the
landlady irritable at being disturbed in her first sleep, the untimely
visitor much ruffled in temper by various causes.

"Drunk!" echoed Gammon, as he leapt to the pavement and clutched at
Greenacre's arm. "Drunk yourself, more likely! Where have you been
since you sent that telegram? Hold on a minute." He paid the cabman.
"Now then, give an account of yourself."

"What the devil do you mean?" cried the other. "What account do I owe
to you?"

"Well, I might answer that question," said Gammon with a grin, "if I
took time to calculate."

"We can't talk in the street at this time of night, with snow coming
down. Suppose we go up to your room?"

"As you please. But I advise you to talk quietly; the walls and the
floors are not over thick."

The latch-key admitted them, and they went as softly as possible up the
stairs, only one involuntary kick from Greenacre on sounding wood
causing his host to mutter a malediction. By a light in the bedroom
they viewed each other, and Greenacre showed astonishment.

"So you _are_ drunk, or have been You've got a black eye, and your
clothes are all pulled about. You've been in a row."

"You're not far wrong. Tell' me what you've been doing, and you shall
hear where the row was and who was with me."

"Gammon, you've been behaving like a cad--a scoundrel. I didn't think
it of you. You went to that place in Sloane Street. No use lying; I've
been told you were there. You must have found out I was going away, and
you've played old Harry. I didn't think you were a fellow of that sort;
I had more faith in you."

Upon mutual recrimination followed an exchange of narratives.
Greenacre's came first. He was the victim, he declared, of such ill
luck as rarely befell a man. Arriving at Euston by the Irish mail, and
hastening to get a cab, whom should he encounter on the very platform
but a base-minded ruffian who nursed a spite against him; a low fellow
who had taken advantage of his good nature, and who--in short, a man
from whom it was impossible to escape, for several good reasons, until
they had spent some hours together. He got off a telegram to Lord
Polperro, and could do no more till nearly eleven o'clock at night.
Arriving headlong at Lowndes Mansions, he learnt with disgust what had
gone on there in his absence. And now, what defence had Gammon to
offer? What was his game?

"I guess pretty well what yours is, my boy," answered the listener.
"And I'm not sorry I've spoilt it."

Thereupon he related the singular train of events between breakfast
time this (or rather yesterday) morning and the ringing out of the old
year. When it came to a description of Lord Polperro's accident
Greenacre lost all control of himself.

"Ass! blockhead! You know no better than to let such a man in his state
of health get mixed up in a crowd of roughs at midnight? Good God! He
may die!"

"I shouldn't wonder a bit," returned Gammon coolly. "If he does it may
be awkward for you, eh?"

From his story he had omitted one detail, thinking it better to keep
silence about the burning of the will until he learnt more than
Greenacre had as yet avowed to him.

"Fool!" blustered the other. "Idiot!"

"You'd better stop that, Greenacre, or I shan't be the only man with a
black eye. Do you want to be kicked downstairs? or would you prefer to
drop out of the window? Keep a civil tongue in your head."

At this moment both were startled into silence by a violent thumping at
the wall.

It came from the room which used to be occupied by Polly Sparkes, and
was accompanied by angry verbal remonstrance from a lodger disturbed in
his slumbers.

"Didn't I tell you?" muttered Gammon. "You'd better get home and go to
bed; the walk will cool you down. It's all up with your little game for
the present. Look here," he added in a friendly whisper, "you may as
well tell me. Has he another wife?"

"Find out," was Greenacre's surly answer; "and go to the devil!"

A rush, a scuffling, a crash somewhere which shook the house. The
disturbed lodger flung open his door and shouted objurgations. From
below sounded the shrill alarm of Mrs. Bubb, from elsewhere the anxious
outcries of Mrs. Cheeseman and her husband.

Amid all this Greenacre and his quondam friend somehow reached the foot
of the stairs, where the darkness that enveloped their struggle was all
at once dispersed by a candle in the hand of Mrs. Bubb.

"Don't alarm yourself," shouted Gammon cheerily, "I'm only kicking this
fellow out. No one hurt."

"Well, Mr. Gammon, I do think--"

But the landlady's protest was cut short by a loud slamming of the
house-door.

"It's nothing," said the man of commerce, breathing hard. "Very sorry
to have disturbed you all. It shan't happen again. Good night, Mrs.
Bubb."

He ran up to his room, laughed a good deal as he undressed, and was
asleep five minutes afterwards. Before closing his eyes he said to
himself that he must rise at seven; business claimed him tomorrow, and
he felt it necessary to see Mrs. Clover (or Lady Polperro) with the
least possible delay. However tired, Gammon could always wake at the
hour he appointed. The dark, snowy morning found him little disposed to
turn out; he had something of a headache, and a very bad taste in the
mouth; for all that he faced duty with his accustomed vigour. Of course
he had to leave the house without breakfast, but a cup of tea at the
nearest eating-house supplied his immediate wants, and straightway he
betook himself to the china shop near Battersea Park Road.

That was not a pleasant meeting with his friend Mrs. Clover. To
describe all that had happened yesterday would have taxed his powers at
any time; at eight-thirty a.m. on the first of January, his head aching
and his stomach ill at ease, he was not likely to achieve much in the
way of lucid narrative. Mrs. Clover regarded him with a severe look.
His manifest black eye, and an unwonted slovenliness of appearance,
could not but suggest that he had taken leave of the bygone year in a
too fervid spirit. His explanations she found difficulty in believing,
but the upshot of it all--the fact that her husband lay at St.
Bartholomew's Hospital--seemed beyond doubt, and this it was that
mainly concerned her.

"I shall go at once," she said in a hard tone, turning her face from
him.

"But there's something else I must tell you," pursued Gammon, with much
awkwardness. "You don't know--who to ask for."

The woman's eyes, even now not in their depths unkindly, searched him
with a startled expression.

"I suppose I shall ask for Mr. Clover?"

"They wouldn't know who you meant. That isn't his real name."

A cry escaped her; she turned pale.

"Not his real name? I thought it--I was afraid of that! Who am I, then?
What--what have I a right to call myself?"

With a glance at the door of the sitting-room, nervousness bringing the
sweat to his forehead, Gammon told what he knew, all except the burning
of the will, and the fact of Greenacre's mission to Ireland. The
listener was at first sight utterly bewildered, looked incredulous, and
only when certain details had been repeated and emphasized began to
grasp the reality of what she heard.

"Oh!" she exclaimed at length in profound agitation, "that explains so
many things! I never thought of this, but I've often wondered. I
understand now."

She paused, struggling to control herself. Then, not without dignity,
in the tone and with the face that are natural at such moments only to
a woman here and there; the nobler of her sex, she added:

"I can't go to the hospital. Someone else must tell me about him. I
can't go."

"I shall have time to call on my way," said Gammon, "and I could send
you a wire."

"Will you? I can't go."

She sobbed, but quietly, hiding her face in her hands. Gammon, more
distressed by her emotion than he had ever felt at the sight of a woman
weeping, did his clumsy best to solace her. He would call at the
hospital straight away and telegraph the news as soon as possible. And
anything else he could learn about Lord Polperro should be made known
to her without delay. He wrote on a piece of paper the address in
Sloane Street, and that of the house in Stanhope Gardens. On the point
of departure something occurred to him that it was wise to say.

"I shouldn't do anything just yet." He looked at her impressively. "In
your position I should just wait a little. I'm sure it would be better,
and I may be able to give you a reason before long."

She nodded.

"I shall do nothing--nothing."

"That's best, I assure you. You're not angry with me? You'll shake
hands?"

She gave him her hand; withdrew it quickly; turned to hide her face
again. And Gammon hastened Citywards.

A telegram came from him in little more than an hour. It reported that
the patient was still unconscious and dangerously ill.

When, later in the afternoon, Gammon went to the hospital to make
another inquiry he learnt that Lord Polperro was dead.

Turning away, debating whether to send the widow a. telegram or to
break the news by word of mouth, he saw a cab drive up, out of which
jumped Mr. Greenacre. Their eyes met, but they exchanged no sign of
recognition. Scarcely, however, had Gammon walked a dozen yards when a
quick step sounded behind him, and he was addressed in tones of the
most conciliatory politeness.

"Gammon, may I beg one word? I owe you an apology. My behaviour last
night was quite unjustifiable. I can only explain it by the fact that I
had undergone a severe trial to the nerves. I was not myself. May I
hope, my dear Gammon, to be forgiven? I apologize most humbly--believe
me."

"Oh, that's all right," replied the other with a grin; "I hope I didn't
hurt you?"

"My dear fellow, it would have served me right. But no--just a few
trifling bruises. By the by, our friend has departed."

"Dead--yes!"

"Do you know, Gammon, I think we ought to have a quiet talk. You and I
have common interests in this matter. There will be an inquest, you
know, and the fact is I think"--he spoke very confidentially--"it might
be as well for us both if we came to some sort of mutual understanding.
As things have turned out we are victims of circumstances. Might I
suggest with all deference that we should dine together very quietly? I
know a very suitable place. It's early for dinner, but, to tell the
truth, I have had no particular appetite, to-day; in fact, have hardly
touched food."

Gammon accepted this invitation and decided to send a telegram to the
china shop.

Their conference--tentative on both sides for the first half hour--led
eventually to a frank disclosure of all that was in their minds with
regard to Lord Polperro. Each possessed of knowledge that made him
formidable to the other, should their attitude be one of mutual
hostility, they agreed, in Greenacre's phrase, to "pool" all
information and then see how they stood. Herein Gammon had the
advantage; he learnt much more than it was in his power to communicate,
for, whilst Greenacre had been playing a deliberate game, the man of
commerce had become possessed of secrets only by chance, which his
friend naturally could not believe.

Greenacre had been to Ireland on the track of a woman whom Lord
Polperro had lost sight of for some five-and-twenty years; he had
obtained satisfactory evidence that this woman was dead--a matter of
some moment, seeing that, if still alive, she would have been his
lordship's wife. The date of her death was seven years and a few months
ago.

"By jorrocks!" cried the listener at this point, greatly disturbed.
"Then Mrs. Clover--as we call her--wasn't really his wife at all?"

"I regret to say that she was not," replied Greenacre with proper
solemnity. "I grieve to tell you that our deceased friend committed
bigamy. Our deceased friend was a most peculiar man; I can't say that I
approve of his life, viewed as a whole."

Then came Gammon's disclosure about the burning of the will and about
Lord Polperro's intention to see his solicitor.

Greenacre smiled grimly.

"If I may make a personal remark, Gammon," he said in measured tones,
"I will confess that I should never have allowed the destruction of
that document. You, my friend, if I am not mistaken, had a still
greater interest in preventing it. That will provided very handsomely
for Mrs. Clover, for Miss Clover, and--I may say liberally--for a young
lady named Miss Sparkes."

He smiled more grimly than ever.

Gammon drew in his breath and refrained from speech.

"Of course, I understand his motives," pursued Greenacre. "They were
prudent, no doubt, and well meaning. He did not foresee that there
would be no opportunity for that interview with his solicitor."

"Look here, Greenacre, I Want to know how you found out first of all
that he'd married twice."

"Very simply; I took it for granted that he had. I am a student, as you
know, of genealogy, also of human nature in general. In my first
interview with Lord Polperro I let fall a word or two which obviously
alarmed him. That was quite enough. In his singular state of mind he
jumped to the conclusion that--as they say on the stage--I knew
everything; and, of course, I very soon did; as much, that is to say,
as he himself knew. He married at two-and-twenty a young girl whom he
met in Ireland; married her in his right name--Trefoyle (not
Clover)--and they travelled together for a year or two. Then somehow
they parted, and never saw or heard of each other again. No, there was
no child. I had little difficulty in persuading his lordship to let me
investigate this matter for him; I did it with complete success. The
girl belonged to a peasant family, I may tell you; she led, on the
whole, a decidedly adventurous life, and died suddenly on a ship in
which she was returning to the old country from America. I gather that
she never knew her husband's aristocratic connexion. Of course, I was
discretion itself whilst making these inquiries, and I feel pretty sure
that no claim will ever be made from that quarter--the peasant
family--on our friend's estate."

"Why, then," exclaimed Gammon, "what is to prevent Mrs. Clover from
coming forward? She knows nothing; she needn't ever hear a word."

"Gammon, you surprise me. Clearly you haven't the legal mind. How could
you reconcile yourself to stand by whilst the law of your country was
so grossly defeated?"

"Humbug! Don't use such long words, old chap. But perhaps Polperro's
family knew of the marriage?"

"They did not, I can assure you. Our friend was the kind of man who
doesn't like the class in which he was born; he preferred a humbler
station. He was never on very good terms with his relatives."

"Well, then," Gammon persisted, "who is to let them know that Mrs.
Clover wasn't the real wife? Hanged if I see why she shouldn't come
forward!"

"My friend," replied Greenacre, smiling gently, "it will be my
privilege to make known all the facts of this case to the Honourable
Miss Trefoyle, his lordship's sister and nearest surviving relative."

"What?"

"I regard it as a simple duty. I cannot even argue the subject, Gammon;
if _you_ have no conscience, _I_ have."

Gammon sat pondering until light began to break upon him. The other,
meanwhile, watched his countenance.

"I see," he said at length bluntly. "You think it'll do you more good
to take that side. I see."

"Gammon, my leanings are aristocratic. They always were. It puts me at
a disadvantage sometimes in our democratic society. But I disregard
that. You may call it prejudice. I, for my part, prefer to call it
principle. I take my stand always on the side of birth and position.
When you have thought about it I am sure you will forgive this weakness
in me. It need not affect our friendship."

"Wait a bit. There's another question I want to ask. What had Lord
Polperro to do with the Quodlings?"

"The Quodlings? Ah! I grieve to tell you that Francis Quodling, an
illegitimate half-brother of our friend, had of late given trouble to
his lordship. Francis Quodling has long been in Queer Street; he seemed
to think that he had a claim--a natural claim, I might say--on Lord
Polperro. When you first met his lordship he had been seeing the other
Quodling on this matter. Pure kindness of heart--he was very
kind-hearted. He wanted to heal a breach between the brothers, and, if
possible, to get Francis a partnership in the firm--your firm. I fear
he exerted himself vainly."

"Greenacre!" exclaimed the man of commerce, thumping the table. "It's
beastly hard lines that that woman and her daughter shouldn't have a
penny!"

"I agree with you. By the by, you have told her?"

"Yes, this morning."

"Gammon, you are so impulsive. Still, I suppose she had to know. Yes, I
suppose it was inevitable. Will she molest his relatives do you think?"

"She?" Gammon reflected. "I can't quite see her doing it. She may be a
bit angry, but--no, I don't think she'll bother anybody. I can't see
her doing it."

And still he meditated.

"You reserve to yourself; I presume, the duty of acquainting her with
these painful facts?"

"Me tell her? Why, I suppose I must if it comes to that. But--I'm
hanged if I shall enjoy it. Who else knows? Jorrocks! there's Polly.
I'd forgotten Polly!"

Gammon grew perplexed in mind and shadowed in countenance. Of a truth
Polly Sparkes had not once entered his mind since he saw her yesterday.
But he must see her again, and that to-night. Whew! He would now have
given a substantial sum to deprive Polly of the knowledge he had so
recklessly confided to her.

"You are impulsive, my friend," remarked the other, quietly amused.
"Impulsive and lacking in foresight."

"And you--Never mind; I won't say it. Still, you used to be a puzzle to
me, Greenacre; now I feel as if I was beginning to understand you a
bit."

The man of foresight--he was remarkably well-dressed this
evening--watched the smoke from his cigarette and smiled.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE TRAVELLER'S FICKLENESS AND FRAUD


In due course a coroner and his jury sat on the body of Lord Polperro;
in the order of things this inquest was publicly reported.

Readers of newspapers learnt that the eccentric nobleman, though in a
weak state of health, had the indiscretion to mingle with a crowd on
New Year's Eve; that he either accidentally fell or was knocked down by
some person unknown in the rough-and-tumble of the hour; in short, that
his death might fairly be accounted for by misadventure. The results of
the autopsy were not made known in detail, but a professional whisper
went about that among the causes contributory to Lord Polperro's death
were congestion of the lungs, softening of the brain, chronic
inflammation of the stomach, drunkard's liver, and Bright's disease of
the kidneys.

The unprofessional persons who came forward were Mr. Gammon, Lord
Polperro's housekeeper, and Miss Trefoyle. The name of Greenacre was
not so much as mentioned; the existence of a lady named Mrs. Clover
remained unknown to court and public.

On the following day Mr. Gammon had a private interview with Miss
Trefoyle. He was aware that this privilege had already been sought by
and granted to Mr. Greenacre, and as his one great object was to avert
shame and sorrow from his friends at Battersea Park, Gammon acquitted
himself with entire discretion; that is to say, he did not allow Miss
Trefoyle to suspect that there had been anything between him and her
brother except a sort of boon companionship. In behaving thus he knew
that he was acting as Mrs. Clover most earnestly desired. Not many
hours before he had discharged what he felt to be his duty, had made
known to Mrs. Clover the facts of her position, and had heard the
unforgettable accent of her voice as she entreated him to keep this
secret. That there might be no doubt as to the truth of Greenacre's
assertions he had accompanied that gentleman to Somerset House, and had
perused certain entries in the registers of marriage and of death
indicated to him by his friend's forefinger; clearly then, if he and
Greenacre kept silence, it would never become known, even to Polperro's
kinsfolk, that his lordship had been guilty of bigamy.

Stay! one other person knew the true name of Mrs. Clover's
husband--Polly Sparkes.

"Polly be hanged," muttered Gammon.

"When is the wedding?" Greenacre inquired casually in one of their
conversations.

"Wedding? Whose wedding?"

"Why, yours."

Gammon's face darkened. A change had come about in his emotions. He was
afraid of Polly, he was weary of Polly, he heartily wished he had never
seen Polly's face. For self-scrutiny Gammon had little inclination and
less aptitude; he could not have explained the origin and progress of
his nearer relations with Miss Sparkes. Going straight to the point,
like a man of business, he merely knew that he had made a condemnable
mistake, and the question was how to put things right.

"There's one bit of luck," he remarked, instead of answering the
inquiry, "she isn't on speaking terms with her aunt."

"I'm rather glad to hear that. But do you think she'll hold out against
her curiosity?"

"In any case she won't learn anything from Mrs. Clover. I'm pretty sure
of that."

"I can only hope you're right about Mrs. Clover," said Greenacre
musingly. "If so, she must be a rather uncommon sort of woman,
especially--if you will excuse the remark--in that class."

"She is," replied Gammon with noteworthy emphasis. "I don't know a
woman like her--no one like her. I wouldn't mind betting all I have
that she'll never speak a word as long as she lives about that man.
She'll never tell her daughter. Minnie will suppose that her father
turned up somehow just for a few hours and then went off again for good
and all."

"Remarkable woman," murmured Greenacre. "It saves trouble, of course."

Possibly he was reflecting whether it might be to his advantage or not
to reveal this little matter in Stanhope Gardens. Perhaps it seemed to
him on the whole that he had done wisely in making known to Miss
Trefoyle only the one marriage (which she might publish or not as her
conscience dictated), and that his store of private knowledge was the
richer by a detail he might or might not some day utilize. For Mr.
Greenacre had a delicacy of his own. He did not merely aim at sordid
profits. In avowing his weakness for aristocratic companionship he told
a truth which explained many singularities in what would otherwise have
been a career of commonplace dishonesty.

"I suppose she must be told," said Gammon with bent head. "Polly, I
mean."

"Miss Sparkes is a young lady of an inquiring spirit. She will want to
know why she does not benefit by Lord Polperro's death."

"You told her yourself about the will, remember."

"I did. As things turn out it was a pity. By the by, I should like to
have seen that document. As Cuthbertson has no knowledge of it, our
deceased friend no doubt drafted it himself. More likely than not it
would have been both amusing and profitable to the lawyers, like his
father's in the days of our youth. I wonder whether he called Mrs.
Clover his wife? We shall never solve all these interesting doubts."

"I had better not let Polly know he burnt it," remarked Gammon.

"Why, no; I shouldn't advise that," said the other with a smile. "But I
have heard that married men--"

"Shut up! I'm not going to marry her."

Driven to this bold declaration, Gammon at once felt such great relief
that he dared everything.

"Then there'll be the devil to pay," said Greenacre.

"Wait a bit. Of course I shall take my time about breaking off."

"Gammon, I am surprised and shocked--not for the first time--at your
utter want of principle."

Each caught the other's eye. The muscles of their faces relaxed, and
they joined in a mirthful peal.

It was a long and exciting week for the town traveller. Greenacre,
always on the look out for romance in common life, was never surprised
when he discovered it, but to Gammon it came with such a sense of
novelty that he had much ado to keep a clear head for everyday affairs.
He drove about London as usual, but beset with fantastic visions and
desires. Not only was Polly quite dismissed from his thoughts (in the
tender sense), but he found himself constantly occupied with the image
of Mrs. Clover, heretofore seldom in his mind, notwithstanding her
brightness and comeliness and the friendship they had so long felt for
each other. Minnie he had forgotten; the mother came before him in such
a new light that he could hardly believe his former wish to call her
mother-in-law. This strange emotion was very disturbing. As if he had
not worry enough already!

Delicacy kept him away from the china shop. He knew how hard it must be
for the poor woman to disguise her feelings before Minnie and other
people. Minnie, to be sure, would understand signs of distress as a
result of her father's brief reappearance, but Mrs. Clover's position
was no less lamentable. He wished to be at her side endeavouring to
console her. Yet, as likely as not, all he said would give her more
pain than comfort.

Ah, but there was a woman! Was he likely ever to meet another who had
pluck and goodness and self-respect like hers? Minnie? Some day,
perhaps, being her mother's daughter. But Minnie, after all, was little
more than a child. And he could no longer think of her in the old way
it made him uncomfortable if he tried to do so.

Polly? Ah, Polly! Polly be hanged!

He had an appointment with her for this evening--not at the theatre
door, for Polly no longer went to the theatre. Change in the management
had put an end to her pleasant and lucrative evenings; she had tried in
vain to get like employment at other places. In a letter received this
morning she remarked significantly that of course it was not worth
while to take up any other pursuit again.

It could not be called a delightful letter from any point of view.
Polly had grown tired of uniform sweetness, and indulged herself in
phrases of an acid flavour.

"Haven't you got anything yet to tell me about the will? If I don't
hear anything from you before long I shall jolly well go and ask
somebody else. I believe you know more than you want to tell, which I
call it shameful. Mind you bring some news to-night."

They met at six o'clock in the Lowther Arcade; it was raining, cold,
and generally comfortless. By way of cheery beginning Gammon declared
that he was hungry, and invited Miss Sparkes to eat with him.

They transferred themselves to a restaurant large enough to allow of
their conversing as they chose under cover of many noises. Gammon had
by this time made up his mind to a very bold step, a stratagem so
audacious that assuredly it deserved to succeed. Only despair could
have supplied him with such a suggestion and with the nerve requisite
for carrying it out.

"What about that will?" asked Polly, as soon as they were seated and
the order had been given.

"There is no will."

This answer, and the carelessness with which it was uttered, took away
Polly's breath. She glared, and unconsciously handled a table knife in
an alarming way.

"What d'you mean? Who are you kidding?"

"He's left no will. And what's more, if he had, your name wouldn't have
been in it, old girl."

"Oh, indeed! We'll soon see about that! I'll go straight from 'ere to
that 'ouse, see if I don't I'll see his sister for myself this very
night, so there!"

"Go it, Polly, you're welcome, my dear. You'll wake 'em up in Stanhope
Gardens."

The waiter interrupted their colloquy. Gammon began to eat; Polly,
heeding not the savoury dish, kept fierce eyes upon him.

"What d'you mean? Don't go stuffing like a pig but listen to me, and
tell me what you're up to."

"You're talking about Lord P., ain't you?" asked Gammon in a lower
voice.

"Course I am."

"And you think he was your uncle? So did I till a few days ago. Well,
Polly, he wasn't. Lord P. didn't know you from Adam, nor your aunt
either."

He chuckled, and ate voraciously. The artifice seemed to him better and
better, enjoyment of it gave him a prodigious appetite.

"If you'll get on with your eating I'll tell you about it. Do you
remember what I told you about the fellow Quodling in the City? Well,
listen to this. Lord P. had another brother knocking about--you
understand, a brother--like Quodling, who had no name of his own. And
this brother, Polly, is your uncle Clover."

Miss Sparkes did not fail to understand, but she at once and utterly
declined to credit the statement.

"You mean to say it wasn't Lord P. at all as I met--as I saw at the
theatre?"

"You saw his illegitimate brother, your uncle, and never Lord P. at
all. Now just listen. This fellow who called himself Clover is a
precious rascal. We don't know as much about him as we'd like to, but I
dare say we shall find out more. How did he come to be sitting with
those ladies in the theatre, you're wanting to ask? Simple enough.
Knowing his likeness to the family of Lord Polperro he palmed himself
off on them as a distant relative, just come back from the colonies;
they were silly enough to make things soft for him. He seems to have
got money, no end of it, out of Lord P. No doubt he was jolly
frightened when you spotted him, and you know how he met you once or
twice and tipped you. That's the story of your Uncle Clover, Polly."

The girl was impressed. She could believe anything ill of Mrs. Clover's
husband. Her astonishment at learning that he was a lord had never
wholly subsided. That he should be a cunning rascal seemed vastly more
probable.

"But what about that letter you sent--eh?" pursued Gammon with an
artful look. "Didn't you address it to Lord P. himself? So you did,
Polly. But listen to this. By that time Lord P. and his people had
found out Clover's little game; never mind _how_, but they had. You
remember that he wouldn't come again to meet you at Lincoln's Inn. Good
reason, old girl; he had had to make himself scarce. Lord P. had set a
useful friend of his--that's Greenacre--to look into Clover's history.
Greenacre, you must know, is a private detective." He nodded solemnly.
"Well now, when your letter came to Lord P. he showed it to Greenacre,
and they saw at once that it couldn't be meant for him, but no doubt
was meant for Clover. 'I'll see to this,' said Greenacre. And so he
came to meet us that night."

"But it was _you_ told me he was Lord P.," came from the listener.

"I did, Polly. Not to deceive you, my dear, but because I was taken in
myself. I'd found what they call a mare's nest. I was on the wrong
scent. I take all the blame to myself."

"But why did Greenacre go on with us like that? Why didn't he say at
once that it wasn't Lord P. as had met me?"

"Why? Because private detectives are cautious chaps. Greenacre wanted
to catch Clover, and didn't care to go talking about the story to
everybody. He deceived me, Polly, just as much as you."

She had begun to eat, swallowing a mouthful now and then mechanically,
the look of resentful suspicion still on her face.

"And what do you think?" pursued her companion, after a delicious
draught of lager beer. "Would you believe that only a day or two before
Lord P.'s death the fellow Clover went to your aunt's house, to the
china shop, and stayed overnight there! What do you think of that, eh?
He did. Ask Mrs. Clover. He went there to hide, and to get money from
his wife."

This detail evidently had a powerful effect. Polly ate and drank and
ruminated, one eye on the speaker.

"I got to know of that," went on the wily Gammon. "And I told
Greenacre. And Greenacre made me tell it to Lord P. himself. And that's
how I came to be with Lord P. on New Year's Eve! Now you've got it all."

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Polly with ferocity.

"Ah, why? I was ashamed to, my dear. I couldn't own up that I'd made a
fool of myself and you too."

"How did you know that he'd been at my aunt's?"

"She sent for me, Polly; sent for me and told me, because I was an old
friend. And I was so riled at the fellow coming and going in that way
that I spoke to Greenacre about it. And then Greenacre told me how
things were. I felt a fool, I can tell you. But the fact is, I never
saw two men so like in the face as Clover and Lord P."

"When you was there--at my aunt's--did you talk about me?" asked the
girl with a peculiar awkwardness.

"Not a word, I swear! We were too much taken up with the other
business."

For a minute or two neither spoke.

"And you mean to say," burst at length from Polly, "that my uncle's
still alive and going about?"

"All alive and kicking, not a doubt of it, and Lord P. buried at Kensal
Green; no will left behind him, and all his property going to the next
of kin, of course. Now listen here, Polly. I want to tell you that I
shouldn't wonder if you have a letter from Greenacre. He may be asking
you to meet him."

"What for?"

"Just to have a talk about Clover--see? He's still after Clover, and he
thinks you might be of use to him. I leave it to you--understand? You
can meet him if you like; there's no harm. He'll tell you all the story
if you ask him nicely."

On this idea, which had occurred to him in the course of his glowing
mendacity, Gammon acted as soon as he and Polly had said good-bye. He
discovered Greenacre, who no longer slept at the Bilboes, but in a
house of like cosiness and obscurity a little farther west; told him of
the brilliant ingenuity with which he had escaped from a galling
complication, and received his promise of assistance in strengthening
the plot. Greenacre wrote to Polly that very night, and on the morrow
conversed with her, emphasizing by many devices the secrecy and
importance of their interview. Would Polly engage to give him the
benefit of her shrewdness, her knowledge of life, in his search for the
man Clover? His air of professional eagerness, his nods, winks, and
flattery so wrought upon the girl that she ceased to harbour suspicion.
Her primitive mind, much fed on penny fiction, accepted all she was
told, and in the consciousness of secret knowledge affecting lords and
ladies she gave up without a sigh the air-drawn vision of being herself
actually a member of an aristocratic family.

At the same time she thought of Gammon with disappointment, with vague
irritation, and began all but to wish that she had never weakly
pardoned him for his insulting violence at Mrs. Bubbs'.




CHAPTER XXV

THE MISSING WORD


Just at this time the inhabitants of England--one might say of the
British Isles--but more especially those privileged to dwell in London
and its suburbs, submitted to one of the waves of intellectual
excitement which, as is well known, are wont at intervals to pass over
this fervidly imaginative people. Some representative
person--ingenious, philosophic, and ardent for the public good--had
conceived in a bright moment a thought destined to stir with zeal the
pensive leisure of millions. This genius owned, or edited, a weekly
paper already dear to the populace, and one day he announced in its
columns a species of lottery--ignoble word dignified by the use here
made of it. Readers of adequate culture were invited to exercise their
learning and their wit in the conjectural completion of a sentence--no
quotation, but an original apophthegm--whereof one word was represented
by a blank. Each competitor sent, together with the fruit of his eager
brain, a small sum of money, and the brilliant enthusiast who at the
earliest moment declared the missing word reaped as guerdon the total
of these numerous remittances. It was an amusement worthy of our time;
it appealed alike to the villa and the humble lodging, encouraged the
habit of literary and logical discussion, gave an impulse to the sale
of dictionaries. High and low, far and wide, a spirit of noble
emulation took hold upon the users of the English tongue. "The missing
word"--from every lip fell the phrase which had at first sounded so
mysteriously; its vogue exceeded that, in an earlier time, of "the
missing link." The demand for postage stamps to be used in transmitting
the entrance fee threatened to disorganize that branch of the public
service; sorting clerks and letter carriers, though themselves
contributory, grew dismayed at the additional labour imposed upon them.

Naturally the infection was caught by most of the lively little group
of Londoners in whose fortunes we are interested. Mr. Gammon threw
himself with mirthful ardour into a competition which might prove so
lucrative. Mr. Greenacre gave part of his supple mind to this new
branch of detective energy. The newly-wedded pair, Mr. and Mrs. Nibby,
ceased from the wrangling that follows upon a honeymoon, and incited
each other to a more profitable contest. The Parish household devoted
every possible moment with native earnestness to the choice and the
weighing of vocables. Polly Sparkes, unable to get upon the track of
her missing uncle, abandoned her fiery intelligence to the missing
word. The Cheeseman couple, Mrs. Bubb, nay, even Moggie the general,
dared verbal conjecture and risked postage stamps. Only in a certain
china shop near Battersea Park Road was the tumult unregarded, for Mrs.
Clover had fallen from her wonted health, her happy temper, and Minnie
in good truth cared neither for the recreation nor the dangled prize.

When Gammon and Polly met they talked no longer of Lord Polperro or
Uncle Clover, but of words.

"I've got it this time, Polly! I swear I've got it! 'Undeserved
misfortune is often a--to the noble mind.' Why, it's _stimulus_, of
course!"

"I never heard the word," declared Polly. "I'm sending in _stroke_."

"_Stroke_? What do you mean by that?"

"What do I mean by it? Why, what they want to say is, that 'Undeserved
misfortune is often a _blow_ to the noble mind,' don't they? But _blow_
can't be the word, 'cause everybody'd get it. The dictionary gives
_stroke_ for _blow_, and I'm sure that's it."

"Rot! they don't mean to say that at all! It ain't a _blow_ to the
noble mind, it's just the opposite; that's what _they_ mean."

"How can it be the opposyte?" shrilled Polly. "Ain't it a knock-down if
you get what you don't deserve?"

"I tell you _they_ don't mean that. Can't you understand? Why, it's as
plain as the nose on your face."

"Is it?" retorted Polly with indignation. "If I've got a plain nose,
why didn't you tell me so before? If that's your way of talking to a
lady--"

"Don't be a fool, Polly! It's a saying, ain't it?"

And they parted as usual, in dudgeon on both sides, which was not
soothed when both found themselves wrong in the literary contest; for
the missing word this week, discovered by an East-end licensed
victualler, was _pick-me-up_.

Public opinion found fault with this editorial English. There rose a
general murmur; the loftier spirits demanded a purer vocabulary, the
multitude wanted to know whether that licensed victualler really
existed. All looked for an easy word next week; easy it must be this
time, or the game would begin to lose its zest. When the new number
went forth in its myriads of copies, and was snatched from street
vendors, stalls, shops, general expectation seemed to be justified.

"As nations grow civilized they give more and more attention to--"

Every man, every woman, had a word ready. Mr. Greenacre said nothing,
but hastily wrote down _genealogy_. Gammon, before consulting with
Polly Sparkes, sent off his postage stamps and _commerce_. Mr. and Mrs.
Parish declared in one shout that the word could only be _hyjene_.

"Nonsense!" said Christopher, who was in the room. "That's just because
you're always thinking of it."

For all that, as he went to business the word hummed in his head. It
might be the solution after all; his objection originated only in scorn
of a word so familiar, and therefore, he had thought at first, so
improbable. But, really, the more he thought of it--

In his pocket he carried an envelope, already addressed, and a blank
sheet of paper enfolding stamps. Should he once more enter the
lottery--risk the price of a luncheon? He had resolved not to do so,
but every moment the temptation gained upon him. "Hyjene." By the by,
how did one spell the word? _H-y_--he grew uncertain at the third
letter. Misspelling, he knew, would invalidate his chance; on the other
hand, he must post as soon as possible; already thousands of answers
were on their way to the office of the editor.

He was sitting in a London Bridge tram-car. At its next stoppage there
entered a staid old gentleman, with whom he had made the Cityward
journey for years; they always nodded to each other. This morning the
grave senior chanced to take a place at his side, and a greeting passed
between them. Christopher felt a sudden impulse, upon which he acted
before timidity and other obstacles could interfere.

"Would you tell me, sir," he whispered, "the c'rect spelling of
_hyjene_; meaning 'ealthiness, you know?"

"Why, what a queer thing!" answered his neighbour with all
friendliness. "I've just been reading the word in the paper. Here is
it."

He folded the sheet conveniently for Christopher's inspection, and
pointed--

"_H-y-g-i-e-n-e_."

Mr. Parish read eagerly, his eyes close to the print, dreading lest he
should forget.

"Thanks very much, sir. I--a friend of mine told me I was wrong. I knew
I wasn't--thanks awfully!"

The white-haired man smiled approval, and returned to his study of the
news. Christopher kept spelling the word in silence, and though the
weather was very cold, soon perspired under the dread that he had got a
letter wrong. At St. George's Church agitation quite overcame him; he
hurried from the car, ran into a by-street, and with his pocket pencil
wrote on the blank sheet of paper "Hygiene." Yes, he had it right. It
looked right. Now for the nearest letter-box.

But his faith in "Hygiene" had risen to such fervour that he dreaded
the delay of postal delivery. Why not carry the letter himself to the
editorial office, which was at no very great distance? He would, even
though it made him late at Swettenham's. And he began to run.

Panting, but exultant, he delivered his answer in the national
competition, thus gaining a march upon the unhappy multitudes who dwelt
far away, and whose resource and energy fell short of his. Then he
looked at the time and was frightened; he would be dreadfully
unpunctual at business; Swettenham's might meet him with stern rebuke.
There was nothing for it, he hailed a cab.

Only in the middle of the morning did he remember that he had in his
pocket a love-letter to Polly Sparkes, which he had meant to post
early. He had seen Polly a few days ago, and suspected that she was in
some sort of trouble and difficulty, possibly--though she denied
it--caused by her want of employment. Polly declared that she had
resources which enabled her to take a holiday. Not very long ago such a
statement would have racked Christopher with jealous suspicions;
suspicious he was, and a little uneasy, but not to the point of mental
torture. The letter in his pocket declared that he could never cease to
love Polly, and that he groaned over the poverty which condemned him to
idle hopes; for all that, he thought much less of her just now than of
the missing word. And when, in the luncheon hour, he posted his amorous
missive, it was with almost a careless hand.

On this same day it happened that Mr. Gammon, speeding about his
business in Messrs. Quodlings' neat little trap, found he could
conveniently stop for a midday meal somewhere near Battersea Park Road.
The boy who accompanied him took the horse to bait, and Mr. Gammon
presently directed his steps to the little china shop.

Mrs. Clover had just finished dinner; her female assistant had returned
into the shop, and by her Gammon sent a request for a moment's private
conversation. He soon entered the sitting-room.

"It's strange you have looked in to-day," said Mrs. Clover, with the
dull air of one who has a headache. "I wanted to see you."

"I'm very glad."

He sat down at a distance from her and observed her face. This was a
new habit of his; he saw more, much more, than he had been wont to see
in the healthy, sweet-tempered, and still young countenance; its
present languor disturbed him.

"What was it, Mrs. Clover?" he asked in a voice not quite like his own.

"Well, I wanted to speak about Polly. Her father has been here asking
questions."

Gammon set his lips almost angrily.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know as anything is. But--have you heard anything about her
going to be married?"

"Has she told her father that?" he asked, with a shuffle of his feet.

"Not in plain words. But she's doing nothing--except roam about the
streets--and she won't give any straightforward account of herself. Now
would you mind telling me, Mr. Gammon, whether"--her eyes fell--"I
mean, if you've done anything since that night, you know, to make her
offended with you?"

"Offended? Not that I know of," was his prompt answer with genuine
surprise.

Mrs. Clover watched him, and seemed not dissatisfied.

"I'll tell you why I ask. Some time ago she wrote me a queer letter. It
said she _was_ going to be married--or thought about it; and there was
something I couldn't understand about _you_. I shall show you that
letter. I think it's only right."

She withdrew for a moment and returned with Polly's abusive epistle,
which she handed to her visitor.

Gammon first read it, then looked for a date, but none was discernible.

"When did you get this?" he asked.

Mrs. Clover could mention the very day, and on reflecting Gammon felt
sure that Polly must have written this just before the exciting events
which threw him and her into each other's arms. In the same moment he
recalled Polly's eagerness to become possessed of a letter she had
posted to him--the letter he was not to open.

"You may well say it's queer." He laughed and laughed again. "She gives
me a nice character, eh? And you've been wondering what I'd done? All
I've got to say is, that it's a blessed lie from beginning to end. But
perhaps you won't believe me?"

"I will believe you if you tell me plain and straight that you hadn't
done anything wrong--nothing to be ashamed of."

"Well, then, I do tell you that. I never gave her the least cause to
speak of me in that way. It's all lies."

"I more than half thought it was."

Mrs. Clover heaved a sigh and looked more cheerful.

"And what," she added, "does she mean about marrying a gentleman?"

"That's more than I can tell you."

Again he laughed, laughed like a man enjoying sudden relief of mind.

"More than I can tell you, Mrs. Clover. But I'll see if I can't find
out; indeed I will. Her friends, the Nibby's, may be able to tell me
something. Have you asked her to come and see you?"

"No. For one thing I don't know the address, and after a letter like
this--"

"Quite right. Leave it to me." He bent his head, hesitated, and added
quietly, "I may have something to tell you."

Thereupon they parted, and Mrs. Clover felt her head so much better
that she was able to attend to business.




CHAPTER XXVI

A DOUBLE EVENT


With clang and twang the orchestra (a music-hall orchestra) summoned to
hilarity an audience of the first half-hour; stragglers at various
prices, but all alike in their manifest subdual by a cold atmosphere, a
dull illumination, empty seats, and inferior singers put on for the
early "turns." A striking of matches to kindle pipe or cigar, a
thudding of heavy boots, clink of glass or pewter, and a waiter's
spiritless refrain--"Any orders, gents?" Things would be better
presently. In the meantime Mr. Gammon was content to have found a place
where he could talk with Polly, sheltered from the January night, at
small expense. He sipped thoughtfully from a tumbler of rich Scotch; he
glanced cautiously at his companion, who seemed very much under the
influence of the hour. Polly, in fact, had hardly spoken. Her winter
costume could not compare in freshness and splendour with that which
had soothed her soul through the bygone sunny season; to tell the
truth, she was all but shabby. But Gammon had no eye for this. He was
trying to read Polly's thoughts, and wondering how she could take what
he had made up his mind to tell her.

"I saw your aunt yesterday."

"You did?"

"Yes, I did. She was telling me about a letter she had from you some
time ago--the last letter you wrote her."

Their eyes met. Miss Sparkes was defiant--on her guard, but not wholly
courageous; Gammon twinkled a mocking smile, and held himself ready for
whatever might come.

"She shows you people's letters, does she?" said Polly with a sneer.

"This one she did. Good reason. It was funny reading, old girl. That's
your opinion of me, is it? Do you mind telling me who the gentleman
is--the _real_ gentleman--you think of taking up with?"

Gammon could not strike a really ungenerous note. He had meant to be
severe, but did not get beyond sly banter.

"She's a cat for showing it to you!" replied Miss Sparkes. "That was
wrote before we--you know what. It was after you'd took your 'ook that
Sunday on the Embankment. I didn't mean it. I was a bit cross. I'll pay
her out some day for this, see if I don't."

Much more did Polly say, the gist of it all being an evident desire to
soothe her companion's feelings. Gammon found himself in an unexpected
and awkward position. He had taken for granted an outbreak of violence,
he had counted upon the opportunity of mutual invective, he wished to
tell Polly to go further. In the face of such singular mildness he was
at a loss for weapons. Mere brutality would soon have settled the
matter, but of that Mr. Gammon was incapable. At this juncture too, as
if in support of Polly's claim to indulgence, a strain, irresistible by
heart of man, preluded a song of the affections. Gammon began to
understand what a mistake it was to have brought Polly to a music-hall
for the purpose of breaking with her. Under cover of the languishing
lyric Miss Sparkes put her head nearer to him.

"What am I to do, eh?"

"To do?"

"I cawn't go on like this. Do you want me to get another job somewhere?
I sh'd think you might see I cawn't wear this jacket much longer."

The crisis was dreadful. Gammon clutched at the only possible method of
appeasing his conscience, and postponing decisive words he took Polly's
hand--poorly gloved--and secretly pressed the palm with a coin, which
Polly in less than a clock-tick ascertained to be one pound sterling.
She smiled. "What's that for?"

"For--for the present."

And in this way another evening went by, leaving things as before.

"I'd never have believed I was such a fool," said Gammon to himself at
a late hour. He meant, of course, that experience was teaching him for
the first time the force of a moral obligation, which, as theorist, he
had always held mere matter for joke. He by no means prided himself on
this newly-acquired perception; he saw it only as an obstacle to
business-like behaviour. But it was there, and--by jorrocks! the
outlook began to alarm him.

Meanwhile Mr. Greenacre was pursuing a laudable object. Greatly pleased
at the dexterity with which Miss Sparkes had been hoodwinked in the
matter of Lord Polperro and her Uncle Clover, he determined to set all
at rest in that direction by making Polly believe that Mr. Clover, her
uncle himself as distinct from Lord Polperro, was also dead and gone
and done for. Gammon knew of the design and strongly favoured it, for
he was annoyed by Mrs. Clover's false position; he wished her to be
proclaimed a widow, without the necessity of disagreeable revelations.

An exciting post card brought about one more interview between Miss
Sparkes and the so-called private detective. They met in a spot chosen
for its impressiveness, the City office of a great line of ocean
steamers. When Polly had with some difficulty discovered the place and
entered shyly she was met by Greenacre, who at once drew her aside and
began talking in a whisper with much show of worry and perturbation. In
his hand rustled a printed form, with a few words in pencil.

"It's all over, Miss Sparkes. We have no more hope. This last cable
settles it. Don't let me agitate you. But I thought it best that you
should come here and see the cable for yourself." Sinking his voice and
with his lips at her ear he added, "Your uncle is dead."

Polly was not overcome.

"Is it _reely_ him this time?"

"Clover--not a doubt of it. I got on his track, but too late, he was
off to South Africa. Here is a cable from the Cape. He died at
sea--some obscure disease, probably an affection of the heart--and was
buried off the West Coast. Read it for yourself. 'Clover, second cabin
passenger, died and buried 23.4 S., 8.2 S.; effects await
instructions.' There he lies at the bottom of the sea, poor fellow.
This is only a confirmatory cable; I have spent lots of money in
learning particulars. Perhaps you would like to see one of the
officials about it, Miss Sparkes? Unfortunately they can only repeat
what I have told you."

Polly had no desire to hold converse with these gentlemen; she was
thoroughly awed and convinced by Greenacre's tones and the atmosphere
of the office.

"I have already communicated with your aunt. I dare say you would like
to go and see her."

But neither for this had Polly any present inclination. She wanted to
be alone and to reflect. Having made sure that she was not likely to
visit Mrs. Clover forthwith, Greenacre took his leave, blending a
decent melancholy with the air of importance and hurry proper to a man
involved in so much business.

This week she had not entered for the missing word competition; and as
few things interested Polly in which she had no personal concern, the
morning on which the result was published found her in her ordinary
frame of mind. She was thinking of Gammon, determined to hold him to
his engagement, but more out of obstinacy than in obedience to the
dictates of her heart, which had of late grown decidedly less fervid.
Gammon could keep her respectably; he would make a very presentable
husband; she did not fear ill treatment from him. On the other hand,
she felt only too certain that he would be the stronger. When it came
to a struggle (the inevitable result of marriage in Polly's mind)
Gammon was not the man to give in. She remembered the battle at Mrs.
Bubb's. All very well, that kind of thing, in days of courtship, but
after marriage--no! Some girls might be willing to find their master.
Polly had always meant to rule, and that undisputedly.

Breakfasting in her bedroom at ten o'clock, she was surprised by the
receipt of a telegram. It came from Christopher Parish and ran thus:

"Great news. Do meet me at entrance to Liverpool Street Station one
o'clock. Wonderful news."

What this news could be puzzled her for a moment; then she remembered
that Mr. Parish had spoke of a possible "rise" at Swettenham's early in
the New Year. That must be it. He had got an increase of salary;
perhaps five shillings a week more; no doubt.

Would that make any difference? Was it "good enough"? So her thoughts
phrased the anxious question.

Regarding Christopher one thing was certain--he would be her very
humble slave. She imagined herself his wife, she pictured him inclining
to revolt, she saw the results of that feeble insubordination, and
laughed aloud. Christopher was respectable; he would undoubtedly
continue to rise at Swettenham's, he would take a pride in the
magnificence of her costume. When her temper called for natural relief
she could quarrel with him by the hour without the least apprehension,
and in the end would graciously forgive him. Yes, there was much to be
said for Christopher.

A little before one o'clock she was at Liverpool Street, sheltered from
a drizzle that brought down all the smoke of myriad chimneys. A slim
figure in overcoat and shining hat rushed through the puddles towards
her, waving an umbrella to the peril of other people speeding only less
frantically.

"Polly! I've got it!"

He could gasp no more; he seized her arm as if for support.

"How much is it?" she asked calmly.

"Five hundred and fifty pounds! _Hyjene_!"

"What--five hundred and fifty a year?"

Christopher stared at her.

"You don't understand. The missing word. I've got it this week. Cheque
for five hundred and fifty pounds! _Hyjene_!"

"_Reely_!"

"Look here--here's the cheque! _Hyjene_!"

Polly fingered the paper, studied the inscription. All the time she was
thinking that this sum of money would furnish a house in a style vastly
superior to that of Mrs. Nibby's. Mrs. Nibby would go black in the face
with envy, hatred, and malice. As she reflected Christopher talked,
drawing her to the least-frequented part of the huge roaring railway
station.

"Will you, Polly? Why don't you speak? Do, Polly, do!"

She all but spoke, would have done but for an ear-rending whistle from
an engine.

"I shall have a rise, too, Polly. I'm feeling my feet at Swettenham's.
Who knows what I may get to? Polly, I might--I might some day have a
big business of my own, and build a house at Eastbourne. It's all on
the cards, Polly. Others have done it before me. Swettenham began as a
clerk--he did. Think Polly, five hundred and fifty pounds!--_Hyjene_!"

She met his eye; she nodded.

"You _will_?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"Hooray! _Hyjene_ forever! Hooray-ay-ay!"




CHAPTER XXVII

THE TRAVELLER AT REST


Two or three days after this Gammon heard unexpectedly from Mrs.
Clover, who enclosed for his perusal a letter she had just received
from Polly Sparkes. What, she asked, could be the meaning of Polly's
reference to her deceased uncle? Was there never to be an end of
mysteries and miseries in relation to that unhappy man?

Turning to Polly's scrawl (which contrasted so strongly with Mrs.
Clover's neat, clear hand), Gammon discovered the passage which had
disturbed his correspondent. "You mustn't expect me to go into black
for your husband, for uncle I won't call him. I heard about him coming
to you for money and then taking his hook because detectives was after
him. A nice sort of man. It's a pity he had to be buried at the bottom
of the sea, where you can't put up a monniment to him, as I'm sure you
would like to do. So this is all I have to say, and I shall not trouble
you again."

Here was no puzzle for Gammon, who had approved Greenacre's scheme for
finally getting rid of Mr. Clover. But Polly's letter began with an
announcement which occasioned him the greatest surprise he had known
since the identification of Clover with Lord Polperro. So completely
did it engross and confuse his mind that not until some quarter of an
hour elapsed could he think about the passage quoted above. "I write to
inform you," began Miss Sparkes, without any introductory phrase, "that
I am going to be married to a gentleman who has a high place at
Swettenham's, the big tea merchants, and his name is Mr. Parish. He has
won the missing word, which is five hundred and fifty pounds, and
which, every penny of it, he will spend on furniture at one of the best
places. You shall have one of our cards when we send them out, though I
cannot say you have behaved accordingly. The reason I do not invite you
to the wedding is because Mr. Parish's friends are very particular."

After reading these remarkable lines again and again Mr. Gammon was
much disposed to shout; but something restrained him. He felt, perhaps,
that shouting would be inadequate or even inappropriate. When his first
emotions subsided he went quietly forth from the house (it was evening)
and took a walk about the adjacent streets, stopping at a stationer's
to purchase note-paper. Returned to his room he gently whistled an
old-fashioned melody; his face passed from grave thoughtfulness to a
merry smile. Before going to bed he meant to write a letter, but there
was no hurry; two hours had to pass before the midnight collection.

The letter was brief, lucid, sensible. He explained to Mrs. Clover that
the painfulness and difficulty of her situation since Lord Polperro's
death had impelled him to a strange, but harmless and justifiable,
expedient for putting her affairs in order. He made known the nature of
the artifice, which, "for several reasons," he had tried in the first
instance upon Polly Sparkes, with complete success. If Mrs. Clover took
his advice she would straightway go into moderate mourning and let it
be known that her husband was dead. Reserve as to details would seem
strange to no one; ordinary acquaintances might be told that Mr. Clover
had died abroad, friends and relatives that he had died at sea. He
hoped she would not be offended by what he had done, as it relieved her
from a wretched burden of secrecy, and greatly improved the position of
her daughter, Miss Minnie. She need not reply to this letter unless she
liked, and he would make an opportunity of calling upon her before very
long.

A week passed without reply.

By discreet inquiry Gammon learnt that Mrs. Clover had assumed the garb
of widowhood, and this was quite enough.

"There," he said to himself, "there's an end of lies!" And he shook his
shoulders as if to get quite clear of the unpleasant entanglement; for,
Mr. Gammon, though ingenious at a pinch, had no natural bent towards
falsehood. To be rid at almost the same moment of Mr. Clover and Polly
Sparkes seemed to him marvellous good luck; and in these bitter, sodden
days of the early year he was lighter hearted than for many months.

He had heard from Polly:


"DEAR MR. GAMMON,

"I don't think we are suited to each other, which is better for both
parties. I shall send you a wedding-card in a few days, and I'm sure I
wish you all happiness. And so I remain with my best respects,

"Yours truly
  Miss SPARKES"


This time Mr. Gammon felt no restraint upon his mirth. He threw his
head back and roared joyously. That same day he went to a jeweller's
and purchased--for more than he could afford--a suitable trinket, and
sent it with a well-meaning note to Polly's address.

Winter brightened into spring, spring bloomed into summer. Gammon had
paid several visits to the china shop, where all was going very well
indeed. Minnie Clover now spent her evenings almost invariably with the
young man interested in ceramic art, but it never disturbed Gammon to
have ocular evidence of the fact. With Mrs. Clover he conversed in the
respectfully familiar tone of an old friend, now and then reporting
little matters which concerned his own welfare, such as his growing
conviction that at Quodlings' he had found a "permanency," and his
decision to go no more to Dulwich, to sell all his bow-wows, to find
another employment for leisure hours.

But he was not wholly at ease. Time after time he had purposed making a
confession to Mrs. Clover, time after time he "funked it"--his own
mental phrase--and put it off.

He grew discontented with his room at Mrs. Bubb's. In getting up these
bright mornings he looked with entirely new distaste upon the prospect
from his window at the back. Beneath lay parallel strips of ground,
divided from each other by low walls. These were called the "gardens"
of the houses in Kennington Road, but no blade of grass ever showed
upon the black, hard-trodden soil. Lank fowls ran about among discarded
furniture and indescribable rubbish, or children--few as well-tended as
Mrs. Bubb's--played and squabbled under the dropping soot. Beyond rose
a huge block of tenements, each story entered from an external
platform, the levels connected by flights of iron steps; the lofty
roof, used as a drying ground by the female population, was surrounded
with iron railings. Gammon had hitherto seen nothing disagreeable in
this outlook, nor had the shrieks and curses which at night too
frequently sounded from the huge building ever troubled his repose. But
he was growing fastidious. He thought constantly of a clean little
street not far from Battersea Park--of a gleaming china shop--of a
little parlour which seemed to him the perfection of comfort and
elegance.

Courage and opportunity came together. He sat alone with Mrs. Clover
one Sunday evening, and she told him that Minnie was to be married in
six months' time. Gammon bore the announcement very well indeed; he
seemed really glad to hear it. Then his countenance became troubled, he
dropped awkward sentences; with a burst of honest feeling, which made
him very red, he at length plunged into his confession. Not a little
astonished, Mrs. Clover learnt all that had passed between him and
Polly Sparkes, now Polly Parish. Nothing did he extenuate, but he
wronged neither Polly nor himself.

"There, I've got it out. You had to know. Thank goodness it's over!"

"Why did you tell me?" asked Mrs. Clover, a flush on her comely face,
which could not yet smile, though she asked the question with a
suggestion of slyness.

"It seemed only right--to make things square--don't you see. I shall
know next time I come how you've taken it. And perhaps the next time
after that--"

Mrs. Clover was now smiling, and so gently, so modestly, that Gammon
forgot all about his scheme for a gradual approach. He began to talk
excitedly, and talked for such a long time that his hostess, who wished
him to disappear before Minnie's return, had at length to drive him
away.

"I shall certainly keep on the shop," were her last words before the
door opened. "I've got used to it, and--it'll keep me out of mischief."

Her merry little laugh echoed in Gammon's ears all the way home, and
for hours after. And when, as he rose next morning, he looked out on to
the strips of back-yard and the towering tenements, they had lost all
their ugliness.

"By jorrocks!" he ejaculated, after gashing his chin with the razor,
"I'll send Polly a handsome present next Christmas."









End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Town Traveller, by George Gissing

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