Mr. Gammon eagerly jotted down the particulars in his notebook, and swallowed the whisky at his side with gusto.  Not once, however, had he asked himself why this man of guiles and freaks chose to mask under the name of Clover, an omission to be accounted for not by any lack of wit, but by mere educational defect.  He could not have been further from suspecting that his utterance of the name Clover had given his genealogical friend a most important clue, and a long start in the search for the missing man.

Impatiently he awaited the early nightfall of the morrow.  Business had to be attended to as usual; but he went about with a bearing of extraordinary animation, now laughing to himself, now snapping his fingers, now (when he chanced to be out of people’s sight) twirling round on one leg.  Either of yesterday’s events would have sufficed to exhilarate him; together they whipped his blood and frothed his fancy.  He had found Clover, who was a lord!  He had won the love of Polly Sparkes, who was the finest girl living!  Did ever the bagman of an oil and colour firm speed about his duties with such springs of excitement bubbling within him?

And Mrs. Clover?  Ought she not to be told at once?  Had he any right to keep to himself such a discovery as this?  He knew, by police court precedent, that a false name in marriage did not invalidate the contract.  Beyond shadow of doubt Mrs. Clover was Lady Polperro.  And Minnie—­why, suppose Minnie had favoured his suit, he would have been son-in-law of a peer!  As it was, whom might not the girl marry!  She would pass from the neighbourhood of Battersea Park Road to a house in Mayfair or Belgravia; from Doulton’s and the china shop to unimaginable heights of social dignity.  And who more fit for the new sphere?  Mr. Gammon sighed, but in a moment remembered Polly and snapped his fingers.

A little before five o’clock he was hovering within sight of the coffee tavern, which already threw radiance into the murky and muddy street.  In a minute or two he saw Polly and exchanged a quick word with her.

“Up you go!  You’ll find all ready.  If he comes I shall see him, and I’ll look in when you’ve had a little talk.”

Polly disappeared, and Mr. Gammon again hovered.  But who was this approaching?  Of all unwelcome people at this moment, hanged if it wasn’t Greenacre!  What did the fellow want here?  He was staring about him as if to make sure of an address.  Worse than that, he stepped up to the private door of the coffee-tavern and rang the bell.

Shrinking aside into darkness, Gammon felt a shiver of unaccountable apprehension, which was quickly followed by a thrill of angry annoyance.  What did this mean?  The door had opened, Greenacre was admitted.  What the devil did this mean?  If it wasn’t enough to make a fellow want to wring another fellow’s neck!

He waited thirty seconds, thinking it was five minutes, then went to the door, rang, and entered.