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.
