She mentioned the number of the house, and carefully repeated it, whilst Polly turned away as if the conversation did not interest her.  Thereupon Mr. Gammon bade them good night, and went his way, marvelling that Polly Sparkes had all at once become so placable.  Was it a stratagem to throw him off his guard and bring him into the clutches of some avenger one of these nights?  One never knew what went on in the minds of such young women as Polly.

Next morning he had another surprise, a letter from his friend Greenacre, inviting him, with many phrases of studious politeness, to dine that day at a great hotel, the hour eight o’clock, and begging him to reply by telegram addressed to the same hotel.  This puzzled Gammon, yet less than it could have done at an earlier stage of their acquaintance.  He had abandoned the hope of explaining Greenacre’s mysterious circumstances, and the attempt to decide whether his stories were worthy of belief or not.  Half suspecting that he might be the victim of a hoax he telegraphed an acceptance, and thought no more of the matter until evening approached.  Part of his day was spent in helping a distracted shopkeeper on the verge of failure to obtain indulgence from certain of his creditors he also secured a place as errand boy for the son of a poor woman with whom he had lodged until her house was burnt down one Bank Holiday; and he made a trip to Hammersmith to give evidence at the police-court for a friend charged with assaulting a policeman.  Just before eight o’clock, after a hasty wash and brush up at a public lavatory, he presented himself at the great hotel, where, from a lounge in the smoking-room, Greenacre rose to welcome him.  Greenacre indubitably, but much better dressed than Gammon had ever seen him, and with an air of lively graciousness which was very impressive.  The strange fellow offered not a word of explanation, but chatted as though their meeting in such places as this were an everyday occurrence.

“I have something interesting to tell you,” he observed, when they were seated in the brilliant dining-room, with olives, sardines, and the like to toy with before the serious commencement of their meal.  “You remember—­when was it? not long ago—­asking me about a family named Quodling?”

“Of course I do.  It was only the other day at—­”

“Ah, just so, yes,” interposed Greenacre, suavely ignoring the locality.  “You know my weakness for looking up family histories.  I happened to be talking with my friend Beeching yesterday—­Aldham Beeching, you know, the Q.C.—­and Quodling came into my head.  I mentioned the name.  It was as I thought.  I had, you know, a vague recollection of Quodling as connected with a lawsuit when I was a boy.  Beeching could tell me all about it.”

“Well, what was it?”