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Title: The Town Traveller

Author: George Gissing

Release Date: August, 2003  [Etext #4308]
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[This file was first posted on January 3, 2002]

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by George Gissing
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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)

George Gissing

The Town Traveller





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 m 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, _satto 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. CIover'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 m 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 m 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 Etext of The Town Traveller
by George Gissing