“Come and sit over here,” said Gammon, “away from the door.  Now make yourself comfortable, old girl.  Sure you won’t have anything?”

The writing materials were brought; the door was closed.

“Now we’re all right.  A long time since we saw each other, Polly.  Have you heard anything?  Any more about Mr. C.?”

She shook her head.

“Well, look here now, I want you to write to him.  You didn’t believe me when I said I knew.  Well, you’ll believe me now.  I want you to write to him, and to ask him to meet you here.  If he won’t come I know what to do next.  But you just write a few lines; you know how.  You want to see him at this coffee tavern at five o’clock tomorrow; he’s to come to the private door and ask for Miss—­let’s say Miss Ellis—­that’ll do.  I shall be here, but not in the room at first; I’ll come in when you’ve had a little talk.  I don’t think he’ll refuse to come when he sees you’ve got his address.”

“What is the address?”

“Patience, my dear; wait till you’ve written the letter.  I’ll walk up and down the room whilst you do it.”

He began pacing, but Polly made no movement towards the table.  She was strangely sullen, or, perhaps, depressed; not at all like herself, even when in anger.  She cast glances at her companion, and seemed desirous of saying something—­of making some protest—­but her tongue failed her.

“No hurry,” Gammon remarked, after humming through a tune.  “Think it out.  Only a line or two.”

“Are you telling me the truth about my letter?” she suddenly asked.  “You haven’t read it?”

“I assure you I haven’t.  That’s a treat for when I get home.”

Still she delayed, but before Gammon had taken many more steps she was seated at the table, and biting the end of the penholder.

“You’ll have to tell me what to say.”

“All right.  Take the words down.”

He dictated with all possible brevity.  The letter was folded and enclosed.  Only in the last few minutes had Gammon quite decided to share his knowledge with Polly.  As she bent her head and wrote, something in the attitude—­perhaps a suggestion of domesticity—­ appealed to his emotions, which were ready for such a juncture as this.  After all there were not many girls prettier than Polly, or with more of the attractiveness of their sex.  He looked, looked till he could not turn away.

“Now then for the address.  I’ll write it on this piece of paper, and you shall copy it.”

Polly watched him, puzzled by the nervous grin on his face.  She took the paper, on which he had written as legibly as he could—­

“Lord Polperro,
16, Lowndes Mansions,
Sloane Street,
S.W.”

And having read it she stared at him.

“What d’you mean?”

“That’s the address.”

“Are you making a fool of me?” Polly exclaimed, angry suspicion flashing in her eyes.