" You didn’t tell me that,” replied Greenacre, as if surprised.

“No, I didn’t mention it.  I thought it was enough to tell you she spied him at the theatre.”

He added a brief account of what had happened between Polly and her uncle, Greenacre listening as if this threw new light on the case.

“Then the mistake is mine.  It’s more interesting than ever.  This puts me on my mettle, Gammon.  Don’t lose courage.  I have a wonderful scent in this kind of thing.  Above all, not a word to anybody—­you understand the importance of that?”

“That’s all right.”

“I have a theory—­oh, yes, there’s a theory.  Without a theory nothing can be done.  I am working, Gammon, on the scientific principle of induction.”

“Oh, are you!”

“Strictly; it has never failed me yet—­I can’t ay now; appointment at ten-thirty.  But you all hear from me in a day or two.”

“I say,” inquired Gammon, “what’s your dress now?”

“Address?—­oh, address letters to this place.  They’ll be all right.”

Another fortnight passed.  It was now early in November; the weather gloomy, and by no means favourable to evening strolls.  Gammon wanted much to see both Polly and Mrs. Clover; he had all but made up his mind to write to both of them, yet could not decide on the proper tone in either case.  Was he to be humble to Mrs. Clover?  Should he beg pardon of Polly?  That kind of thing did not come easily to him.

On a day of thin yellow fog he returned about noon from seeing to a piece of business, the result of which he had to report at once to Mr. Quodling.  He entered the clerk’s office and asked whether “the governor” was alone.

“No, he ain’t,” replied a friendly young man.  “He’s got a lord with him.”

“A what?”

“A peer of the realm, sir!  I had the honour of taking his ludship’s card in—­Lord Poll-parrot.  Can’t say I ever heard of him before.”

“What d’you mean?  See here, I’m in a hurry; no kid, Simpson.”

“Well, it might be Poll-parrot.  As a matter of fact, it’s Lord Polperro.”

Gammon gazed fixedly at the young man.

“Lord Polperro?  By jorrocks!”

“Know him, Mr. Gammon?” asked another of the clerks.

“I know his name.  All right, I’ll wait.”

Musing on the remarkable coincidence—­which seemed to prove beyond doubt that there still existed some connexion between the family of Quodling and the titled house which he had heard of from Greenacre—­he stood in the entrance passage, and looked out for five minutes through the glass door at the fog-dimmed traffic of Norton Folgate.  Then a step sounded behind him.  He moved aside and saw a man m a heavy fur-lined overcoat, with a muffler loose about his neck; a thin, unhealthy-looking man, with sharp eyes, rather bloodshot, which turned timidly this way and that, and a high-bridged nose.  As soon as he caught sight of the face Gammon drew himself up, every muscle strung.  The man observed him, looked again more furtively, stepped past to the door.