“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!”