“Do you know anybody called Gildersleeve?”

“Gildersleeve?  Don’t think so.  No.  Why?”

She searched his face to make sure that he did not simulate ignorance.

“Well, you wanted me to find out where that lady lived—­you know—­her as was with Mr. C—­at the theatre.”

“And you’ve got it?” cried Gammon excitedly.

Yes, she had got it, and by consulting a directory at a public-house she had discovered the name of the family residing at that address.  Gildersleeve?  The name conveyed nothing to Mr. Gammon; none the less he was delighted.

“Good for you, Polly!  But how did you do it?”

She put on an air of mystery.  Never mind how; there was the address, if he could make any use of it.  Gammon smiled provokingly.

“Some friend of yours, eh?  You’re well off for friends, Polly.  I ask no questions, my dear; no business of mine.  Much obliged to you, all the same.”

“If you’re so particular about who it was,” said Polly, with her air of pique and propriety, “well, it’s a boy.  So you needn’t look at me like that.”

“A boy, eh?”

“Well, that’s what I think him.  He’s a young clurk in the City as I’ve known long enough, and I think him a boy.  Of course you’re always ready to believe harm of me—­that’s nothing new.  And if the truth was known, you go talkin’ to Mrs. Bubb and them Cheesemans.”

“I don’t!  I told you I shouldn’t, and I don’t!”

“You do!”

“It’s a lie!”

“You’re one yourself!” retorted Polly with heat.

Thereupon Mr. Gammon turned about and walked off.  Polly could not believe that he would really go.  Scorning to look back she paced on for some minutes, but no familiar step approached her; when at length she looked round Mr. Gammon was nowhere to be seen.  This extraordinary behaviour she attributed to jealousy, and so was not entirely displeased.  But the idea of leaving her in the middle of the street, as one might say!  Did one ever!  And just after he’d got what he wanted.

“All right, old fellow!  Wait till you want to see me again, that’s all.”

To have his word disbelieved was the one thing fatal to Gammon’s temper.  He strode off in a towering rage, determined to hold no more communication with Miss Sparkes, and blaming himself for having got into such an ambiguous position towards her.  As if he had ever really cared one snap of the fingers for the red-headed spitfire!  She to tell him to his face that his word was not to be trusted!  He had never stood that yet, from man or woman!

At this rate he would presently have no female friends at all.  Mrs. Clover he had not once seen since the evening at Mrs. Bubb’s, and every day that went by put a greater distance between them.  He understood her unfriendliness; she thought this the best way of destroying any hopes he might still entertain with reference to Minnie; yes, that was the only possible explanation of her silence.  It was too bad; Mrs. Clover might have put more faith in him.  Now he would not visit her; he would not write.  If she wished to see him again, let her acknowledge the wrong she had done him.