Mr. Gammon flattered himself that he knew the City tolerably well, but with the place of refreshment to which his friend now led him he was totally unacquainted.  It stood or lurked in a very obscure by-way between the Bank and St. Paul’s, and looked externally by no means inviting; within, but for the absence of daylight at all times, it was comfortable enough, and peculiarly quiet—­something between an old inn and a modern public-house, with several small rooms for eating, drinking, smoking, or any other legitimate occupation.  The few men who were about had a prosperous appearance, and Gammon saw that they did not belong to his special world.

“What does the name mean?” he inquired, as they seated themselves under a gas-jet in a corner made cosy with a deep divan.

“Bilboes?  Oh, I originated it in the days gone by.  The proprietor was a man called William Bowes—­you perceive?  Poor little Jimmy Todd used to roar about it.  The best-natured fellow that ever lived.  You’ve heard me speak of him—­second son of Sir Luke Todd.  Died, poor boy, out in India.”

“What promise of mine were you talking about?” asked Gammon, when an order for drinks had been given.

“Promise—­promise?  Nonsense!  You’re wool-gathering to-day, my dear boy.  By the by, I called at your place on Sunday.  I was driving a very fresh pony, new to harness; promised to trot her round a little for a friend of mine.  Thought you might have liked a little turn on the Surrey roads.”

Greenacre chatted with his usual fluency, and seemed at ease in the world.

“You’re doing well just now, eh?” said Gammon presently.

“Thanks; feel remarkably well.  A touch of liver now and then, but nothing serious.  By the by, anything I can do for you?  Any genealogy?”

Gammon had drained his tumbler of hot whisky, and felt better for it.  With the second he became more communicative.  He asked himself why, after all, he should not hang on to the clue he had obtained from Polly, and why Greenacre should not be made use of.

“Know anything about a Gildersleeve?” he asked with a laugh.

His companion smiled cheerfully, looking at once more interested.

“Gildersleeve!  Why, yes, there was a boy of that name—­no, no; it was Gildersleeves, I remember.  Any connexion with Quodling?”

“Can’t say.  The people I mean live in Stanhope Gardens.  I don’t know anything about them.”

“Like to?”

Gammon admitted that the name had a significance for him.  A matter of curiosity.

“No harm in a bit of genealogy,” said Greenacre.  “Always interesting.  Stanhope Gardens?  What number?”

He urged no further question and gave no promise, but Gammon felt sure this time that information would speedily be forthcoming.  Scarcely a week passed before Greenacre wrote to him with a request for a meeting at the Bilboes.  As usual, the man of mystery approached his subject by indirect routes.  Beginning with praise of London as the richest ground of romance discoverable in the world, he proceeded to tell the story of a cats’-meat woman who, after purveying for the cats at a West End mansion for many years, discovered one day that the master of the house was her own son.