On reflection Gammon decided to keep the matter to himself.  He had set his mind on discovering Mrs. Clover’s husband, and was all the more determined to perform this feat since the recent events in Kennington Road.  Mrs. Clover had treated him unkindly; he would prove to her that this had no effect upon his zeal in her service.  Polly Sparkes was making fun of him, and the laugh should yet be on his side.  Greenacre, with his mysterious connexions, might be of use, but must not be allowed to run away with the credit of the discovery.  As for these stories about Lord Polperro, it might turn out that Clover was illegitimately related to the noble family—­no subject for boasting, though possibly an explanation of his strange life.  If Polly were really in communication with him—­“Ho, ho!  Very good!  Ha, ha!”

“What now?” asked Greenacre.

“Nothing!  Queer fancy I had.”

After dinner they smoked together for an hour, the host talking incessantly, and for the most part in a vein of reminiscence.  To hear him one would have supposed that he had always lived in the society of distinguished people; never a word referring to poverty or mean employment fell from his lips.

“Poor Bolsover!” he remarked.  “Did I tell you that I had a very kind letter from his widow?”

“I haven’t seen you since.”

“Ah, no, to be sure.  I wrote, or rather I left a card at the town house.  Charming letter in reply.  The poor lady is still quite young.  She was a Thompson of Derbyshire.  I never knew the family at all well.”

Gammon mused, and it occurred to him in his knowledge of the world that Greenacre’s connexion with the house of Bolsover might be that of a begging-letter writer.  There might have been some slight acquaintance in years gone by between this strange fellow and young Lord Bolsover—­subsequently made a source of profit.  Perchance, Greenacre’s prosperity at this moment resulted from a skilful appeal to the widowed lady.

Inclined to facetiousness by a blend of choice beverages, Gammon could not resist a joke at the moment when he took leave.

“Been out with the ‘Saponaria’ van to-day?” he enquired innocently.

Greenacre looked steadily at him with eyes of gentle reproach.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand that allusion,” he replied gravely.  “Is it a current jest?  I am not much in the way of hearing that kind of thing.  By the by, let me know if I can help you in any more genealogies.”

“I will.  So long, old man.”

And with a wink—­an undeniable wink, an audacious wink—­Mr. Gammon sallied from the hotel

Before going to bed he wrote a letter—­a letter to Miss Sparkes.  Would she see him the day after to-morrow, Sunday, if he strolled along Shaftesbury Avenue at ten a.m.?  It would greatly delight him, and perhaps she might be persuaded to take a little jaunt to Dulwich and look at his bow-wows.

CHAPTER XII