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 whatIthink him. He's a young clurk in the City as I've known long enough, andIthink 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.
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—whythis 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 itmightbe 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 ofthat?"
"That's all right."
"I have a theory—oh, yes, there's a theory. Without a theory nothing can be done. I am working, Gammon, on the scientific principle of induction."
"Oh, are you!"
"Strictly; it has never failed me yet—I can't ay now; appointment at ten-thirty. But you all hear from me in a day or two."
"I say," inquired Gammon, "what's your dress now?"
"Address?—oh, address letters to this place. They'll be all right."
Another fortnight passed. It was now early in November; the weather gloomy, and by no means favourable to evening strolls. Gammon wanted much to see both Polly and Mrs. Clover; he had all but made up his mind to write to both of them, yet could not decide on the proper tone in either case. Was he to be humble to Mrs. Clover? Should he beg pardon of Polly? That kind of thing did not come easily to him.
On a day of thin yellow fog he returned about noon from seeing to a piece of business, the result of which he had to report at once to Mr. Quodling. He entered the clerk's office and asked whether "the governor" was alone.
"No, he ain't," replied a friendly young man. "He's got a lord with him."
"A what?"
"A peer of the realm, sir! I had the honour of taking his ludship's card in—Lord Poll-parrot. Can't say I ever heard of him before."
"What d'you mean? See here, I'm in a hurry; no kid, Simpson."
"Well, it might be Poll-parrot. As a matter of fact, it's Lord Polperro."
Gammon gazed fixedly at the young man.
"Lord Polperro? By jorrocks!"
"Know him, Mr. Gammon?" asked another of the clerks.
"I know his name. All right, I'll wait."
Musing on the remarkable coincidence—which seemed to prove beyond doubt that there still existed some connexion between the family of Quodling and the titled house which he had heard of from Greenacre—he stood in the entrance passage, and looked out for five minutes through the glass door at the fog-dimmed traffic of Norton Folgate. Then a step sounded behind him. He moved aside and saw a man in a heavy fur-lined overcoat, with a muffler loose about his neck; a thin, unhealthy-looking man, with sharp eyes, rather bloodshot, which turned timidly this way and that, and a high-bridged nose. As soon as he caught sight of the face Gammon drew himself up, every muscle strung. The man observed him, looked again more furtively, stepped past to the door.
It took Gammon but a moment to dart into the clerk's room and ascertain that the person who had just gone out was Lord Polperro. A moment more and he was out in the street. The heavy-coated and mufflered man was walking quickly southward; he waved his umbrella to a passing cab, which, however, did not pull up. Gammon followed for thirty yards. Again the man hailed a cab, and this time successfully. Just as he was about to step into the vehicle Gammon stood beside him.
"How do you do, Mr. Clover?"
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 youhere. 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 hisreelname?" 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 anarstyletter. 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.