“All is going well,” he declared.  “Our noble friend is improving in health, temporarily, at all events.  Doubtless it is the result of having his mind more at ease.  You can’t imagine, Gammon, how that man has been tormented by remorse.  I am not yet at liberty to disclose his plans.  But I shall certainly be so very soon—­very soon.  I won’t say Christmas, but before New Year’s Day I feel confident I shall have got things completely in order.  I will only hint to you that his lordship wishes to retire from the world, to live a perfectly quiet and simple domestic life in a locality which will be favourable to his health.  You will agree with us, I know, that this is far better than trying to brave the gossip and scandal of society.  I may now tell you, in strict confidence, that our friend has already written a letter to his wife, ready to be posted as soon as ever the last details are settled.  By the by, Gammon, I hope there can be no doubt as to Lady Polperro’s willingness to concur in what her husband proposes?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Gammon replied.  “I can’t answer for her.”

“Naturally.  Of course not.  But I hope there will be no unexpected difficulty on that side.  Lord Polperro has his fears, which I have done my best to dispel.  We can but hope, put our trust in the forgiving nature of woman.”

It now wanted but a very short time to Christmas.  As the day drew near Gammon felt that this state of worrying suspense was growing intolerable.  Polly’s suspicions were louder, her temper became uncertain; once or twice she forgot herself and used language calculated to cause a breach of the peace.  On these occasions Gammon found himself doubting whether she really was the girl after his own heart; he could have wished that she had rather less spirit.  Overcome by her persistence, he at length definitely engaged to wait no longer than the end of the year.  If by that time Greenacre had not put things in order, Polly was to seek her aunt and make known all that they had discovered.

“We won’t be ’umbugged!” she exclaimed.  “And it begins to look to me jolly like ’umbugging.  I don’t know what you think.”

Gammon admitted that the state of things was very unsatisfactory, and must come to an end.  The last day of the year—­so be it.  After that Polly should have her way.

It was the middle of Christmas week.  A letter to the Bilboes remained without answer.  Gammon and Polly met every day, excited each other, lost their tempers, were stormily reconciled.  On the morning of the thirty-first Gammon received four letters begging for pecuniary assistance, but nothing from Greenacre.  He had slept badly, his splendid health was beginning to suffer.  By jorrocks! there should be an end of this, and that quickly.

As he loitered without appetite over a particularly greasy breakfast, listening to Mrs. Bubb’s description of an ailment from which her youngest child was suffering, Moggie came into the kitchen and said that a young man wished to see him.  Gammon rushed up to the front door, where, in mist and drizzle, stood a muscular youth whom he did not recognize.