“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?”