Six years had since elapsed.  To afford herself occupation Mrs. Clover went into the glass and china business, assisted by her parents’ experience, and by the lively interest of her friend Mr. Gammon.  Minnie Clover, a pretty and interesting girl, was now employed at Doulton’s potteries.  All would have been well but for the harassing mystery that disturbed their lives.  Clover’s letters were still posted in London; money still came from him, sometimes in remittances of as much as twenty pounds.  But handwriting and composition often suggested that the writer was either ill or intoxicated.  The latter seemed not unlikely, for Clover had always inclined to the bottle.  His wife no longer distressed herself.  The first escapade she had forgiven; the second estranged her.  She had resolved, indeed, that if her husband did again present himself his home should not be under her roof.

The shop closed at eight.  At a quarter past the house-bell rang and a small servant admitted Mr. Gammon, who came along the passage and into the back parlour, where Mrs. Clover was wont to sit.  As usual at this hour her daughter was present.  Minnie sat reading; she rose for a moment to greet the visitor, spoke a word or two very modestly, even shyly, and let her eyes fall again upon the book.  Considering the warmth of the day it was not unnatural that Mr. Gammon showed a very red face, shining with moisture; but his decided hilarity, his tendency to hum tunes and beat time with his feet, his noisy laughter and expansive talk, could hardly be attributed to the same cause.  Having taken a seat near Minnie he kept his look steadily fixed upon her, and evidently discoursed with a view of affording her amusement; not altogether successfully it appeared, for the young girl—­she was but seventeen—­grew more and more timid, less and less able to murmur replies.  She was prettier than her mother had ever been, and spoke with a better accent.  Her features suggested a more delicate physical inheritance than Mrs. Clover’s comeliness could account for.  As a matter of fact she had her father’s best traits, though Mrs. Glover frequently thanked goodness that in character she by no means resembled him.

Mr. Gammon was in the midst of a vivid description of a rat hunt, in which a young terrier had displayed astonishing mettle, when his hostess abruptly interposed.

“Minnie, I wish you’d put your hat on and run round to Mrs. Walker’s for me.  I’ll give you a message when you’re ready.”

Very willingly the girl rose and left the room.  Mr. Gammon, whose countenance had fallen, turned to the mother with jocose remonstrance.

“Now I call that too bad.  What did you want to go sending her away for?”

“What does it matter?” was Mrs. Clover’s reply, uttered good-humouredly, but with some impatience.  “The child doesn’t want to hear about rats and terriers.”

“Child?  I don’t call her a child.  Besides, you’d only to give me a hint to talk of something else.”  He leaned forward, and softened his voice to a note of earnest entreaty.  “She won’t be long, will she?”