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.”