Gammon promised himself to look into this story when he had time.  That it could in any way concern him he did not seriously suppose, but he liked to track things out.  Some day he would have another look at Quodling the broker, who so strongly resembled Mrs. Clover’s husband.  Both of them, it seemed, bore a likeness to some profligate aristocrat.  Just the kind of thing to interest that queer fish Greenacre.

In the height of the London season nothing pleased Gammon more than to survey the streets from an omnibus.  Being just now a man of leisure he freely indulged himself, spending an hour or two each day in the liveliest thoroughfares.  It was a sure way of forgetting his cares.  Sometimes he took a box place and chatted with the driver, or he made acquaintances, male and female, on the cosy cross seats just broad enough for two.  The London panorama under a sky of June feasted his laughing eyes.  Now he would wave a hand to a friend on the pavement or borne past on another bus; now he would chuckle at a bit of comedy in real life.  Huge hotels and brilliant shops vividly impressed him, though he saw them for the thousandth time; a new device in advertising won his ungrudging admiration.  Above all he liked to find himself in the Strand at that hour of the day when east and west show a double current of continuous traffic, tight wedged in the narrow street, moving at a mere footpace, every horse’s nose touching the back of the next vehicle.  The sun could not shine too hotly; it made colours brighter, gave a new beauty to the glittering public-houses, where names of cooling drinks seemed to cry aloud.  He enjoyed a “block,” and was disappointed unless he saw the policeman at Wellington Street holding up his hand whilst the cross traffic from north and south rolled grandly through.  It always reminded him of the Bible story—­Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea.

He was in the full enjoyment of this spectacle when an odour of cloves breathed across his face, and a voice addressed him.

“Isn’t that you, Mr. Gammon?  Well, if I didn’t think so!”

The speaker was a young woman, who, with a male companion, had just mounted the bus and seated herself at Gammon’s back.  Facing round he recognized her as a friend of Polly Sparkes, Miss Waghorn by name, who adorned a refreshment bar at the theatre where Polly sold programmes.  With a marked display of interesting embarrassment Miss Waghorn introduced him to her companion, Mr. Nibby, who showed himself cordial.

“I’ve often heard talk of you, Mr. Gammon; glad to meet you, sir.  I think it’s Berlin wools, isn’t it?”

“Well, it was, sir, but it’s been fancy leather goods lately, and now it’s going to be something else.  You are the Gillingwater burners, I believe, sir?”

Mr. Nibby betrayed surprise.

“And may I ask you how you know that?”

“Oh, I’ve a good memory for faces.  I travelled with you on the Underground not very long ago, and saw the name on some samples you had.”