This was done on a tell-tale impulse; it showed in what direction his thoughts and mind most readily turned just now.  Thinking it over in the hours that followed he doubted whether, after all, he would tell Polly exactly what had happened; she could be useful to him in the way he intended without knowing more than she had discovered for herself.  Doubt as to the identity of Lord Polperro with Mrs. Clover’s husband he had none whatever—­face, voice, trick of lips, and eyebrows made mistake an impossibility; but he must bring the man into a position where there would be no choice but to reveal himself, and, so far as Gammon knew, no one but Polly could help to that end.  With Mrs. Clover he would communicate when the facts of the strange story were made plain; not yet a while.  And as for Greenacre, why, it was splendid to have got beforehand with that keen-scented fellow.  The promise to keep silence held good only whilst their search might be hindered by someone’s indiscretion.  Now that the search was over he felt himself free to act as he chose.

But what an astounding discovery!  Again and again, by jorrocks!

He was near the theatre long before his time.  He had never waited so long or so impatiently for anyone since the days of his first sweethearting, twenty and odd years ago.  When Polly at length came out she met him with a shyness and awkwardness which he fancied he perfectly understood.

“I want you to come with me where we can have a quiet talk,” he said at once in a tone of eager cordiality.  “It’s too wet for walking; we’ll have a cab.”

Polly gazed at him in unfeigned surprise, and asked where they were to go.  Not far, he replied; here was a cab; in with her.  And before she could decide upon resistance Polly was seated by him.  Gammon then explained that he had the use of a sitting-room at a coffee tavern; they would be there in a minute or two, There was good news for her—­news that couldn’t be told in the street or in a crowded restaurant.

“Did you get my letter?” she asked, shrinking as far from him as space allowed.

“Letter?  When?”

“I posted it this morning,” Polly answered in a timidly sullen voice.

He had not been home since breakfast-time.  She had written to him?  Now, wasn’t that a queer thing!  All yesterday he, too, had thought of writing, and to-day would have done so in any case.  Never mind, the letter would be waiting for him.  Was it nice?  Was it sweet and amiable, like herself?  Ha ha!  Ho ho!

As he laughed the cab drew up with a jerk.  Polly saw that she was in a familiar thoroughfare and in front of a respectable establishment, but it was not without a little distrust that she entered by the private door and went upstairs.  A large room, so ugly and uncomfortable that it helped to reassure her, was quickly lighted.  Gammon requested the woman in attendance to bring pen, ink, and paper, whereat Polly again stared her surprise.