“You know me better.  I was just going to say that I’m a man of business, and perhaps I can help to clear up this job in a business-like way.  That’s what I’m here for.  If I didn’t think I could be of some use to you I should make myself scarce.  What I propose is this, Mrs. Clover.  When Polly comes in—­never mind how late it is, I’ll see you safe ’ome—­let her get upstairs just as usual.  Then you go up to her door and you knock and you just say, ’Polly, it’s me, and I want a word with you; let me come in, please?’ If she lets you in, all right; have a talk and see what comes of it.  If she won’t let you in just come down again and let us know, and then we’ll think what’s to be done next.”

This suggestion was approved, and time went on as the three discussed the mystery from every point of view.  At about ten o’clock Mrs. Bubb’s ear caught the sound of a latch-key at the front door.  She started up; her companions did the same.  By opening the door of the parlour an inch or two it was ascertained that a person had entered the house and gone quickly upstairs.  This could only be Polly, for Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman were together in their sitting-room above, their voices audible from time to time.

“Now then, Mrs. Clover,” said Gammon, “up you go.  Don’t be nervous; it’s only Polly Sparkes, and she’s more call to be afraid of you than you of her.”

“I should think so, indeed,” assented Mrs. Bubb.  “Don’t give way, my dear.  Whativer you do, don’t give way.  I’m sure I feel for you.  It’s fair crool, it is.”

Mrs. Clover said nothing, and made a great effort to command herself.  Her friends escorted her to the foot of the stairs.  Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman had their door ajar, knowing well what was in progress, for the landlady had not been able to keep her counsel at such a dramatic crisis; but fortunately Mrs. Clover was unaware of this.  With light, quick foot she mounted the flight of stairs and knocked softly at Polly’s door.

“Well?  Who’s that?” sounded in a careless voice.

“It’s me, Polly—­your Aunt Louisa.  Will you let me come in?”

“What do you want?”

The tone of the inquiry was not encouraging, and Mrs. Clover delayed a moment before she spoke again.

“I want to speak to you, Polly,” she said at length, with firmness.  “You know what it’s about.  Let me come in, please.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you about anything,” answered Polly, in a tone of unmistakable decision.  “You’re only wasting your time, and the sooner you go ’ome the better.”

She spoke near to the door, and with her last word sharply turned the key.  Only just in time, for Mrs. Clover was that moment trying the handle when she heard the excluding snap.  Natural feeling so much prevailed with her that she gave the door a shake, whereat her niece laughed,