CHAPTER XVI Commercially he was doing well. Quadling and some were more than satisfied with him. Excellent prospects lay ahead, and this time it would assuredly be his own fault if he had not secured the permanency so much desired for him by Mrs. Clover. By the by, would this make any difference? What if he let Mrs. Clover know of his greatly improved position? She might reconsider things, and yet, as often as he thought of Minnie, he felt that her mother's objection corresponded too well with the disposition of the girl. Minnie was not for him. Well and good, he would find somebody else. Polly sparks? Polly behangued. Why did her eyes and her teeth and her rosy cheeks keep plaguing him? He had told himself times innumerable that he cared not a snap of the fingers for Polly and all her highly colored attractions. If only he had not been such a fool as to treat her shabbily last Sunday morning. He felt sorry and couldn't get rid of the vexation. Yet worried him this afternoon as he left Quadling's in Norton Fallgate and walked toward the bank. He was thinking too of a poor fellow with a large family for whom he had tried these last few days to find employment without the usual success. In Thread Needle Street a hand arrested him. Just the man I wanted, said the voice of Mr. Greenacre. He was in an elegant overcoat with the silk hat of the newest fashion. You remember your promise? What promise? Nonsense, but we can't talk about it here. Come to the Bilboes. Don't know the Bilboes? What a mood you're in today. Mr. Gamin flattered himself that he knew the city tolerably well, but with a place of refreshment to which his friend now led him he was totally unacquainted. It stood or lurked in a very obscure byway between the bank and St. Paul's and looked externally by no means inviting. Within but for the absence of daylight at all times it was comfortable enough and peculiarly quiet. Something between an old inn and a modern public house, with several small rooms for eating, drinking, smoking, or any other legitimate occupation. The few men who were about had a prosperous appearance, and Gamin saw that they did not belong to his special world. What does the name mean, he inquired, as they seated themselves under a gas jet and a corner made cozy with a deep divan. Bilboes? Oh, I originated it in the days gone by. The proprietor was a man called William Bose, you perceive. Poor little Jimmy Todd used to roar about it. The best-natured fellow that ever lived. You've heard me speak of him, second son of Sir Luke Todd. Died poor boy out in India. What promise of mine were you talking about, asked Gamin, when an order for drinks had been given? Promise? Promise? Nonsense.  By the bye I called at your place on Sunday. I was driving a very fresh pony, new to harness. Promise to trot her round a little for a friend of mine. Thought you might have liked a little turn on the Surrey roads. Greenacre chatted with his usual fluency, and seemed at ease in the world. You're doing well just now, eh? said Gamin, presently. Thanks. Feel remarkably well. A touch of liver now and then, but nothing serious. By the bye. Anything I can do for you? Any genealogy? Gamin had drained his tumbler of hot whiskey and felt better for it. With a second he became more communicative. He asked himself why, after all, he should not hang on to the clue he had obtained from Polly, and why Greenacre should not be made use of. Know anything about a gilder sleeve? he asked with a laugh. His companion smiled cheerfully, looking at once more interested. Gilder sleeve? Why yes, there was a boy of that name. No, no, it was Gilder's sleeves, I remember. Any connection with quaddling? Can't say. The people I mean live in Stanhope Gardens. I don't know anything about them. Like, too? Gamin admitted that the name had a significance for him. A matter of curiosity. No harm and a bit of genealogy, said Greenacre. Always interesting. Stanhope Gardens. What number? He urged no further question and gave no promise, but Gamin felt sure this time that information would speedily be forthcoming. Scarcely a week passed before Greenacre wrote to him with a request for a meeting at the Bilboes. As usual the man of mystery approached his subject by indirect routes. Beginning with praise of London as the richest ground of romance discoverable in the world, he proceeded to tell the story of a cat's meat woman who, after purveying for the cats at West End Mansion for many years, discovered one day that the master of the house was her own son. He behaved to her very handsomely. At this moment she is living in a pleasant little villa out leatherhead way. You see her driving herself in a little donkey carriage and throwing bits of meat to pussycats at the cottage doors. Touch of nature that, isn't it? By the by you were speaking of a family named Gilder Sleeve. He added this absently, looking about the little room which just now they had to themselves. Know anything about them? asked Gamin, eyeing him curiously. I was just going to say, ah yes, to be sure, the Gilder Sleeves. Now I wonder, Gamin, forgive me, I can't help wondering why this family interests you. Oh nothing, I came across the name. Evidently, Greenacre's tone became a little more positive. I'm sure you have no objection to telling me how and where you came across it. Gamin had an uncomfortable sense of something unfamiliar in his friend. Greenacre had never spoken in this way to him. It sounded rather too imperative, too much the tone of a superior. I don't think I can tell you that, he said awkwardly. No, really? I'm sorry. In that case I can't tell you anything that I have learned. Yet I fancy it might be worth your while to exchange. Exchange? Your information for mine, you know. What I have is substantial, reliable. I think you can trust me in matters of genealogy. Come now, am I right in supposing this curiosity of yours is not altogether unconnected with your interest in France's quaddling, the silkbroker? Nothing to me, Gamin, nothing I assure you. Pure love of genealogical inquiry. Never made a penny out of such things in my life. But I have taken a little trouble, etc. As a matter of friendship, no? Then we'll drop the subject. By the by have you a blackened hand to dispose of? He passed into a vein so chatty and so amiable that Gamin began to repent of distrusting him. Besides, his information might be really valuable and could not easily be obtained in any other way. Look here, Greenacre, I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. The fact is, a man I used to know has disappeared, and I want to find him. He was seen at the theatre with a lady who lives at that house. That's the long and the short of it. Good. Now we're getting on in the old way. Age of the man about fifty, eh? And if I remember, you said he was like quaddling in the face. France is quaddling. Just so. I can assure you then that no such individual lives at the house we're speaking of. No, but perhaps one moment. The gilder sleighs are a young married couple. With them lives an older lady. Greenacre paused, meditating. The name of the missing man, he added gently. Fellow called Clover. Clover, Clover, Clo— Greenacre's first repetition of the name was mechanical. The next sounded a note of confused surprise. The third broke short in a very singular way, just as if his eyes had suddenly fallen on something which startled him into silence. Yet no one had entered the room. No face had appeared at the door. What's up? asked Gammon. The other regained his self-possession, as though he had for a moment wandered mentally from the subject they were discussing. Forgive me. What name did you say? Yes, yes, Clover. Odd name. Tell me something about him. Where did you know him? What was he? Having gone so far, Gammon saw no reason for refusing the details of the story. With the pleasure that every man feels in narrating circumstances known only to a few, he told all he could about the career of Mrs. Clover's husband. Greenacre listened with a placidly smiling attention. Just the kind of thing I am always coming across, he remarked. Every day story in London. We must find this man. Do you know his Christian name? Mrs. Clover called him Mark. Mark? May or may not be his own, of course. And now, if you permit the question, who saw this man and recognized him in the theatre? Gammon gave a laugh. Then, fearing that he might convey a wrong impression, he answered seriously that it was a niece of Mrs. Clover, a young lady with whom he was on friendly terms, nothing whatever but friendly terms, a most respectable young lady, anxious naturally to bring Mrs. Clover and her husband together again, but discreet enough to have kept the matter quiet as yet. And he explained how it came about that this young lady knew only the address in Stanhope Gardens. After reflecting upon that, Greenacre urged that it would be just as well not to take the young lady into their council for the present, to which his friend readily assented. And so, when they had chatted a little longer, the man of mystery rose to keep an appointment. Gammon should hear from him in a day or two. When ten days had gone by without the fulfillment of this promise, Gammon grew uneasy. He could not communicate with Greenacre, having no idea where the man lived or where he was to be heard of. An inquiry at the Bilboes proved that he was not known there. One evening Gammon went to look for himself at the house in Stanhope Gardens. He hung about the place for half an hour, but saw nothing of interest or importance. He walked once or twice along Shaftesbury Avenue, but did not chance to meet Polly, and could not make up his mind to beg an interview with her. At the end of a fortnight, Greenacre wrote, and that evening they met again at the obscure House of Entertainment. It is not often, said Greenacre, in a despondent tone, that I have found an inquiry so difficult. Of course it interests me all the more, and I shall go on with it. But I must freely confess that I've got nothing yet, absolutely nothing. Gammon observed him vigilantly. Do you know what has occurred to me, pursued the other with a half melancholy droop of the head? I really begin to fear that the young lady, your friend, may have made a mistake. How can that be when he met her twice and talked with her? You didn't tell me that, replied Greenacre, as if surprised. No, I didn't mention it. I thought it was enough to tell you she spied him at the theatre. He added a brief account of what had happened between Polly and her uncle. Greenacre listening as if this threw a new light on the case. Then the mistake is mine. It's more interesting than ever. This puts me on my metal, Gammon. Don't lose courage. I have a wonderful scent in this kind of thing. Above all, not a word to anybody. You understand the importance of that? That's all right. I have a theory. Oh yes, there's a theory. Without a theory nothing can be done. I am working, Gammon, on the scientific principle of induction. Oh, are you? Strictly, it has never failed me yet. I can't say now. Appointments at ten thirty. But you all hear from me in a day or two. I say, inquired Gammon, what's your address now? A dress? Oh, address letters to this place. They'll be all right. Another fortnight passed. It was now early in November. The weather gloomy and by no means favorable to evening strolls. Gammon wanted much to see both Polly and Mrs. Clover. He had all but made up his mind to write to both of them, yet could not decide on the proper tone in either case. Was he to be humble to Mrs. Clover? Should he beg pardon of Polly? That kind of thing did not come easily to him. On a day of thin yellow fog he returned about noon from seeing to a piece of business, the result of which he had to report at once to Mr. Quadling. He entered the clerk's office and asked whether the governor was alone. No, he ain't, replied a friendly young man. He's got a lord with him. A what? A peer of the realm, sir. I had the honor of taking his bloodships card in. Lord Paul Parrot. Can't say I ever heard of him before. What do you mean? See here, I'm in a hurry. No kid, Simpson. Well, it might be, Paul Parrot. As a matter of fact, it's Lord Palperot. Gammon gazed fixedly at the young man. Lord Palperot, by Jarex. Know him, Mr. Gammon? Asked another of the clerks. I know his name. All right, I'll wait. Musing on the remarkable coincidence, which seemed to prove beyond doubt that there still existed some connection between the family of Quadling and the titled house which he had heard of from Greenacre, he stood in the entrance passage and looked out for five minutes through the glass door at the fog-dimmed traffic of Norton Fallgate. Then a step sounded behind him. He moved aside and saw a man in a heavy fir-lined overcoat with a muffler loose about his neck, a thin unhealthy-looking man with sharp eyes, rather bloodshot, which turned timidly this way and that, and a high-bridged nose. As soon as he caught sight of the face, Gammon drew himself up, every muscle strung. The man observed him, looked again more furtively, stepped past to the door. It took Gammon but a moment to dart into the clerk's room and ascertain that the person who had just gone out was Lord Palparo. A moment more and he was out in the street. The heavy-coated and mufflered man was walking quickly southward. He waved his umbrella to a passing cab, which, however, did not pull up. Gammon followed for thirty yards. Again the man hailed a cab and this time successfully. Just as he was about to step into the vehicle, Gammon stood beside him. How do you do, Mr. Clover? End of Chapter 16 Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Airy, North Carolina Chapter 17 Of The Town Traveler by George Gissing This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 17 Polly Shows Weakness It was spoken with quiet confidence. Gammon smiled as he looked steadily into the pale, thin face which at once grew modeled with the disturbance of the blood. You are making a mistake, sir, replied an indistinct voice with an effort at dignity. Oh no, not a bit of it. Not now I've heard you speak, Mr. Clover. I don't understand you, sir, sounded more clearly. The pallid visage now a muddy red and the eyes moist. That is not my name. Be so good as to go your way. Certainly I just wanted to make sure that's all. No fuss. Good morning, Mr. Clover. Gammon drew back. He heard the order, Charing Cross, and the cab drew away. After a moment or two of irresolution, Gammon walked hurriedly back to the nearest public house where he called for a glass of bitter and the directory. With the former he slaked a decided dryness of the throat, the latter he searched eagerly in the section court. There it was, Paul Perot, Lord, 16 Laundice Mansion's Sloan Street, Southwest, Junior Ramblers Club, Treefoil, Liscyard, Cornwall. By Jorrox. With thoughts tuned to anything but the oil and color business, he returned to Quadlings and had his interview with the head of the firm. Mr. Quadling Sr. was a gruff, heavy-featured man, decidedly, of course, fiber. When moved he swore with gusto, and it did not take much to put him out. At present he was in an irritable mood, and very unlike his habit gave scant attention to the affairs of which Gammon spoke. It would not have improved his temper had he known that the town traveller was amusing himself with the reflection that there was no trace of personal resemblance between him and his brother Francis, who on the other hand bore a very strong lightness indeed, to Lord Paul Perot. As soon as he could get away Gammon dispatched a telegram. It was to Miss Sparks, whom he requested to meet him at the theatre door that night when she left. Something very important to tell you. 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 Paul Perot, 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 Jorak's. 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 sweet-harding, 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 today 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?  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 had helped to reassure her, was quickly lighted. Gammon requested the woman in attendance to bring pen, ink, and paper, where at Polly again stared her surprise. 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 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 a miss. Let's say Miss Ellis, that'll do. I shall be here, but not in the room at first.  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 toward 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 pen holder. 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 Paparot, sixteen londus mansions, Sloan Street, Southwest. And having read it, she stared at him. What do you mean? That's the address. Are you making a fool of me?  I tell you, that's your uncle's address. Now be careful, Polly, I won't stand at a second time. He was only half joking. Excitement tingled in him, the kind of excitement which might lead either to rage or caresses. He swayed now on one foot, now on the other, as if preparing for a dance, and his fists were clenched upon his hips. You mean to say that's his real name? cried Polly. She too, quivering and reddening. I do. Now mind, Polly, mind what you say, my girl, I won't stand at a second time.  Of course I'll believe it if you tell me you're not kidding, and you mean to say he's a lord? See for yourself. And his name ain't Clover at all? Then what's my aunt's name? Why, Lady Palparo, of course. And many is, well, I don't know exactly. Lady Mini Palparo, I suppose. And you? No, I don't think it gives you a title. But you see, you are the niece of Lord Palparo. Think of that, Polly. You've got a lord for your uncle, up here of the realm. He came nearer and nearer as he spoke, his eyes distended with wild merriment, his arms swinging. And it's me that found it out, Polly. What have you got to say for it, eh, old girl? What have you got to say? Polly uttered a scream of laughter and threw herself forward. Gammon's arms were ready. They clasped her and hugged her. She not dreaming of resistance, anything but that.  That'll do. That's enough. You mean it, don't you? asked Gammon, tenderly enfolding her waist. I suppose so. It looks like it. That'll do. Let me get my breath.  And were you fond of me all the time, Polly? He whispered at her ear as she sat down. I guess say. How do I know?  Why, I've been fond of you for no end of a time. Haven't I showed it in a lot of ways? You must have known, and you did know. When you smashed my door in and fought me, asked Polly with a shame-faced laugh. You don't think I'd have taken all that trouble if it hadn't been for the pleasure of carrying you downstairs. Go along. But there wasn't much love about you, Polly.  Serve you right. Do let me put my air and my hat straight. I say, Polly, and he whispered something. I suppose so, some day, was her answer, with head bent over the hat she was smoothing into shape. But won't you think yourself too good for me? Remember, you've got a lord for your uncle. It returned upon both with the freshness of surprise. Even Polly had quite lost sight of the startling fact during the last few minutes. They looked at the unaddressed letter they gazed into each other's faces. You haven't gone and made a mistake, asked Polly, in an odd undertone. There now. You didn't think. You're beginning to be sorry. No, I'm not. You are. I can see it. Oh, all right. Have it your own way. I thought you wouldn't be so sweet-tempered very long.  Why, it's you that can't keep your temper, shouted Gammon. I only wanted to hear you say it wouldn't make any difference. Happen what might. And didn't I say it wouldn't? shrilled Polly. What more can I say? Strangely enough, a real tear had started in her eye. Gammon saw it, and was at once remorseful. He humbled himself before her. He declared himself a beast and a brute. Polly was a darling, far too good for him, too sweet and gentle and lovely. He ought to think himself the happiest man living, by Jorks if he oughtn't. Just one more? Why, he'd liked a girl to have spirit. He wouldn't give Tuppin's farthing for fifty girls that he'd never seen before. And if she was the niece of a Lord, why, she deserved it, and a good deal more. She ought to be Lady Polly straight away, and hanged if he wouldn't call her so. Hadn't we better get this letter addressed? Polly asked, very amiable again. Yes, it's getting late, I'm afraid. Polly drew up to the table, but her hand was so unsteady that it cost her much trouble to match. I've wrote it awful bad, does it matter? Bad? Why, it's beautifully written, Polly. Lady Polly, I mean. I've got a stamp. She stuck it on to the envelope with an angle upwards, and Gammon declared that it was beautifully done. He never knew any one stamp a letter so nicely. As she gazed at the completed missive, Polly had a sudden thought which made a change in her account. What is it? He hasn't got another wife, has he? Not likely, answered Gammon. If so, he's committed bigamy, and so much the worse for him. Your aunt must have been his first. It was so long ago. Couldn't you find out? Isn't there a book as gives all about lords and their families? I've heard so. I've been a little worried about it, but I'm sure you'll find out. I've heard so. I believe there is, replied the other thoughtfully. I'll get a look at it somewhere. He's scamp enough for anything, I have no doubt. He comes of a bad lot, Polly. There's all sorts of queer stories about his father. At least I suppose it was his father. Tell me some, said Polly, with eagerness. Oh, I will some day, but now I come to think of it I don't know when he became Lord Palperot. He couldn't, of course, till the death of his father. Most likely the old man was alive when he married your aunt.  I shouldn't a bit wonder if he went away the second time because his father had died. I'll find out about it. Would you believe when I met him in the street and spoke to him he pretended he'd never heard such a name as Clover? You met him, did you? When? Oh, I'll tell you all about that afterwards. It's getting late. We shall have lots of talk. You'll let me take you home. We'll have a cab, shall we? Lady Polly's don't walk about the streets on a wet night. She stood in thought. I want you to do something for me. Right you are. Tell me and I'll do it like a shot. See if I don't. His arm again encircled her, and this time Polly did not talk of her at or her. Air.  You know that letter I sent you? What's in it? Something nicey-picy? I want you to let me go to the house with you, just to the door, and I want you to give me that letter back, just as it is, without opening it. You will, won't you, dearie? Of course I will, if you really mean it. I do. It was a nasty letter. I couldn't bear to have you read it now. Gamin had no difficulty in imagining the kind of epistle which Polly would desire suppressed, yet for some obscure reason he would rather have read it. But his promise was given. Polly, in turn, promised to write another letter for him as soon as possible. So they drove in a handsome through a night which washed the fog away to Kennington Road, and whilst Polly kept her place in the vehicle, Gamin ran upstairs. There lay the letter on his dressing table. He hastened down with it, and before handing it to its writer kissed the envelope. Go along, exclaimed Polly, in high good humor, as she reached out with eager fingers. Late as it was he accompanied her to Shaftesbury Avenue, and they parted tenderly after having come to an agreement about the next evening. End of Chapter 17. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Airy, North Carolina. Chapter 18 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 18. Lord Paul Perot's Representative By discreet inquiry, Mr. Gamin procured an introduction to DeBrette, who supplied him with a great deal of information. In the first place he learned that the present Lord Paul Perot, fourth of that title, was not the son but the brother of the Lord Paul Perot preceding him, both being offspring it was plain of the peer whose will occasioned a lawsuit some 40 years ago. Granted the truth of scandalous rumor, which had such remarkable supports in facial characteristics, the present bearer of the title would be, in fact, half-brother to Francis Quadling. Again it was discoverable that the Lord Paul Perot of today succeeded to the barony in the very year of Mrs. Clover's husband's second disappearance. Just what I said was Gamin's mental comment as he thumped the aristocratic pages. Now for the women. To begin with, Lord Paul Perot was set down as a bachelor. Ha-ha! Then he had one sister, Miss Adela Trefoil, older than himself, and that might very well be the lady who was seen beside him at the theatre. Then again, though his elder brother's male children had died, there was living a daughter by name Adeline, recently wedded to, by Jorrox, Lucian Gilder's sleeve Esquire. Why here was the whole boiling of him? Mr. Gamin eagerly jotted down the particulars in his notebook, and swallowed the whiskey 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, and a mission 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 suffice 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 Sparks, who was the finest girl living. Did ever the bag man of an oil and color 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 and marriage did not invalidate the contract. Beyond shadow of doubt Mrs. Clover was Lady Palperot and Minnie. Why, suppose, Minnie had favored 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 neighborhood of Battersea Park Road to a house in Mayfair or a Belgravia, from Dalton's and the China shop to unimaginable heights of social dignity. And whom 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 already 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 and welcome 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.  If it wasn't enough to make a fellow want to ring another fellow's neck. He waited thirty seconds, thinking it was five minutes, then went to the door, rang and entered. Who came in just now, miss? The gentleman for the young lady, sir? By Jorrox. Gammon mounted the stairs at breakneck speed and burst into the private sitting room. There stood Polly with her head up, looking pert indignation and surprise, and before her stood Greenacre, discoursing in his politest tone. What are you doing here? asked Gammon, breathlessly. What are you up to, eh? Ah, Gammon, how do you do? I'm glad you've dropped in. Let us sit down and have a quiet talk. The man of mystery was very well dressed, very cool, more than equal to the situation. He took for granted the perfect friendliness of both Polly and Gammon, smiled from one to the other, and as he seated himself, drew out a cigarette case. I'm sure Miss Sparks won't mind. I have already apologized, Gammon, for the necessity of introducing myself. You, I am sure, will forgive me when you learn the position of affairs.  He had no words ready. Greenacre's sans-fraud, though it irritated him excessively, shamed him into quiet behavior. When you entered, Gammon, I was just explaining to Miss Sparks that I am here on behalf of her uncle, Lord Paparot. Oh, you are! And how do you come to know him? Sangular accident. The kind of thing that is constantly happening in London. Lord Paparot is living next door to an old friend of mine, a man I haven't seen for some seven or eight years till the other day. I happened to hear of my friend's address, called upon him, and there met his lordship. Now, wasn't that a strange thing, Gammon? Just when you and I were so interested in a certain puzzle, a delightful bit of genealogy. Lord Paparot and I quite took to each other. He seemed to like my chat, and in fact we had been seeing a good deal of each other for a week or two. You kept this to yourself, said Gammon.  It was my own business. Certainly, don't dream that I find fault with you, my dear fellow. It was the most natural thing in the world. Now let me explain. I grieve to tell you that Lord Paparot is in very poor health. To be explicit, he is suffering from a complication of serious disorders, among them disease of the heart. He paused to let his announcement have its full effect. You will understand why I am here to represent him. Lord Paparot dare not, simply dare not, expose himself to an agitating interview. It might, it probably would, cost him his life. This sparks I am sure you would not like to see your noble relative fall lifeless at your feet. Polly looked at Gammon, who, in spite of wrath, could not help smiling. He didn't do it in Lincoln's infields, Greenacre. He did not, but I very greatly fear that those meetings, of course I have heard of them, help to bring about the crisis under which he is now suffering, as also did a certain other meeting which you will recollect, Gammon. Pray tell me, did Lord Paparot seem to you in robust health? Can't say he did. Look jolly, seedy. Precisely. Acting on my advice, he has left town for a few days. I shall join him tomorrow and do my best to keep up his spirits. You will now see the necessity for using great caution, great consideration, in this strange affair. We can be quite frank with each other, Gammon, and of course we have no secrets from my new and valued friend, if you will let me call her so, Miss Polly sparks. One has but to look at Miss Sparks to see the sweetness and thoughtfulness of her disposition. Come now, we are going to make a little plot together to act for the best. I am sure we do not wish Lord Paparot's death. I am sure you do not, Miss Sparks. Polly again looked at Gammon and muttered that, of course she didn't. Gammon grinned, feeling sure of his power to act independently if need were, he began to see the Jaco's side of things. One question I should like to ask, continued Greenacre, lading a second cigarette, as Mrs. Clover, as we will continue to call her with an implied apology, been informed yet? I haven't told her, said Gammon frankly, and I'm sure I haven't, added Polly, who had begun to observe Mr. Greenacre with a less hostile eye and was recovering her native vivacity. Greenacre looked satisfied. Then I think you have acted very wisely indeed, as one might have expected from Miss Sparks. I don't mean I shouldn't have expected it from you too, Gammon. But you and I are not on ceremony, old man. Now let me have your attention. We begin by admitting that Lord Paparot has put himself in a very painful position. Painful, let me tell you, in every sense. Lord Paparot desires nothing so much, nothing so much, as to be reunited to his family. He longs for the society of his wife and daughter, but more natural in a man who feels that his days are numbered. Lord Paparot bitterly laments the follies of his life which are explained, Gammon, as you and I know, by the character he inherited. We know the peculiarities of the tree-foil family. Some of them I must not refer to in the presence of a young lady such as Miss Sparks. Polly looked at her toes and smirked. But Lord Paparot's chief fault seems to have been an insuperable restlessness, which early took the form of a revolt against the habits and prejudices of aristocratic life. Knowing so much of that life myself, I must say that I understand him, that to a certain extent I sympathize with him. When a youth he desired the liberty of a plebeian station, and sought it under disguises. You must remember that at that time he had very little prospect, if ever succeeding to the title. Let me give you a little genealogy. Needing trouble, put in, Gammon, I know it all, got it out of a book. I'll tell you afterwards, Polly. Ah, got it out of the book. Why, you are becoming quite a genealogist, Gammon. I need only say, then, that he did not give thought to the title. He chose to earn his own bread, and live his own life, like ordinary mortals. He took the name of Clover. Of course you see why. Hanged if I do, said Gammon. Why, my dear fellow, are not Clover and Tree-Foil the same things? Don't you see? Tree-Foil. Only a little difference of accent.  Not me. Ah, not unnatural, and out of the way, word. Greenacre hid his contempt beneath a smile. Well, now, I repeat that Lord Poppero longs to return to the bosom of his family. He has even gone in the darkness of the night to look at his wife's abode, and return home in misery. A fact. At this moment, your attention I beg, I am assisting him to form a plan by which he will be enabled to live a natural life without the unpleasantness of public gossip. I do not yet feel at liberty to describe our project, but it is ripening. What I ask you is this. Will you trust us? Miss Sparks, have I your confidence? It's all very well, through and Gammon, before Polly could reply. But what if he drops down dead, as you say he might do? What about his family then? Gammon replied the other with great solemnity. I asked whether I had your confidence. Do you or do you not believe me when I tell you that Lord Poppero has long since executed a will, by which not only are his wife and his daughter amply, most amply, provided for? But even more distant relatives on his wife's side.  Look here, Greenacre, exclaimed the man of commerce. Let's be business-like. I may trust you or I may not. What I want to know is how long are we to wait before he comes to the shop down yonder and behaves like an honest man. Just fix a date and I'll make a note of it. My dear Gammon, go ahead. I cannot fix a date on my own responsibility. It depends so greatly on his lordship's health. I can only assure you that at the earliest possible moment Lady Poppero will be summoned to an interview with her husband. By the by, I trust her ladyship is quite well? No, she's all right, replied Gammon impatiently. And the honorable mini-treefoil? She too enjoys good health, I trust. Polly and Gammon exchanged a stare, followed by laughter, which was a little forced on the man's part. That's Miss Clover, he remarked. Sounds queer, doesn't it? That's her real name, cried Polly. Indeed it is, Miss Sparks, replied Greenacre. But let me remind you, if it is not impertinent, that beauty and grace can very well afford to dispense with titles. I think, Gammon, you and I know a case in point.   May I congratulate him, Miss Sparks? Oh, you can if you like, Mr. I forget your name. I do so then, Gammon. I congratulate you and I envy you. I hope I'm a lonely bachelor myself, Miss Sparks. No, hang it, Miss Polly. You may well look pityingly at me. I'm sure I don't, Mr. I can't remember your name, answered Polly with a delighted giggle. See here, Greenacre, Gammon interposed genially. Miss Sparks and I will have to talk this over. Mind you, I give no promise. I found out for myself who Mr. Clover was, and I hold myself free to do what I think fit.  Greenacre nodded absently, then he cleared his throat. I quite understand, my dear boy. I should just like to remind you that there's really nothing to be gained, one way or the other, by interfering with Lord Palparo before he has made his plans. The ladies would in no way be benefited, and it's very certain no one else would be. No doubt you'll bear that in mind. Of course I shall. You may take it from me, Greenacre, that I'm tolerably wide awake. Can I still address you at the Bilbo's? You can, was the grave and dignified reply. And now as I happen to have an appointment at the other end of the town, I really must say goodbye. I repeat, Miss Sparks, you may trust me absolutely. I have your interests and those of my friend Gammon, the same thing now, thoroughly at heart. You will hear from his lordship, Miss Sparks. No hang it, Miss Polly. You will very soon have a line from his lordship, who, I may venture to say, is really attached to you. He speaks of you almost touchingly. Good evening, Miss Polly. Not good-bye. We are to meet again very soon. And who knows all the happy changes that are before you. Ta-ta, Gammon. Rely upon me. I never failed a friend yet. So saying he took his leave with boughs and flourishes. Soon after, Polly and Gammon went into the superior room of the tavern and had tea together, talking at a great rate. One as excited as the other. Miss Sparks, being already attired for her evening duties, they parted only when they were obliged to do so, agreeing to meet again when Polly left the theatre. To pass this interval of time, Mr. Gammon dropped into a music hall. He wished to meditate on what had come to his knowledge. Had it not been that Lord Paupero was, in a sense, a public institution and could not escape him, he would have felt uneasy about the doings of that remarkable fellow green-acre. As it was, he preferred to muse on the advantages, certain to befall many and her mother, and perchance Polly Sparks. After all, the niece of a lord must benefit substantially by the connection, and by consequence that young lady's husband. Though one could have been freer from secondary motives than he, when he found himself falling in love with Polly. And if it turned out a marriage of unforeseen brilliancy, why so much the better? Polly had not altered towards him, dear affectionate girl that she was. He would act honorably. She should have the chance of reconsidering her position, but a damsel, sparingly clad, was singing in the serial comic vein with a dance after each stanza. As he sipped his whiskey and watched and listened, Gammon felt his heart glow within him. The melody was lulling. It had a refrain of delicious sentiment. The listener's eyes grew moist. There rose a lump in his throat. Dear Polly, lovely Polly, would he not cherish her to the day of his death? How could he have fancied that he loved anyone else, darling Polly? When the singer withdrew, he clapped violently, and thereupon calls for another scotch, hot, with lemon. As a matter of course a friend soon discovered him. A man who declared himself in a whisper, stone broke, and said after a glass of the usual beverage that if the truth must be told he had looked in here this evening to save himself from the torments of despair. Three young children and the missus just going to have another. Did Gammon know of any opening in the cork line? Afraid not, replied the traveler, but I know a man out Hoxton Way who's pushing a new lamp glass cleaner. You might give him a look in. It goes well, I'm told, in the eastern suburbs. Presently a coin of substantial value passed from Gammon's pocket into that of his gloomy friend. Poor devil, said the good fellow to himself, he married a tripe dresser's daughter and she nags him, never had a chance to marry a jolly little girl who turned out to have a lord for her uncle. So he drank and applauded and piped his eye and drank again till it was time to meet Polly. When he went forth into the cold street never was man more softly amorous, more mirthfully exultant, or kindly disposed to all the dwellers upon earth. Life abounds in such forms of happiness, yet we are told that it is a sad and sorry affair. End of Chapter 18. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Erie, North Carolina. Chapter 19 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 19. Not in the Secret. Since his adventure in night errantry, Christopher Parish had suffered terrible alternations of hope and despair. For fear of offending Miss Sparks he did not press for an explanation of the errand on which she had sent him, enough that he was again permitted to see her, to entertain her modestly, and to hold her attention whilst he discourseed on the glories of the firm of Swetnam. Every week supplied him with new and astounding Swetnam statistics. He was able to report, as an absolute fact, that a junior member of the firm, a junior, mind you, was building a house at Eastbourne which would cost him all told, not one penny less than sixty-five thousand pounds. He would like to see that house, in fact he must see it. When Easter came round would Miss Sparks honor him with her company on a day trip to Eastbourne, that they might gaze together on the appalling mansion? Perhaps, replied Polly, if you're good. We're at Mr. Parish perspired with ecstasy and began at once to plan the details of the outing. Indeed Polly was very gracious to him, and presently something happened which enhanced her graciousness, perhaps increased her genuine liking for the amiable young man. Her friend Miss Waghorn was about to be married to Mr. Nibbie. It was a cheerless time of the year for a wedding, but Mr. Nibbie had just come in for a little legacy, on the strength of which he took a house in a southeast suburb, and furnished it on the higher system, with a splendor which caused Miss Waghorn to shriek in delight, and severely tested the magnanimity of Polly's friendship. Polly was to be a bridesmaid, and must needs have a becoming dress, but where was it to come from? Her perfidious uncle had vanished, she knew not yet who that uncle really was, and her tips of late had been, in Polly's language, measly. In the course of friendly chat she mentioned to Mr. Parrish that the wedding was for that day weak, and added, with head aside, that she couldn't imagine what she was going to wear. I shall patch up some old dress, I suppose, lucky it's dark weather. Christopher became meditative and seemed to shirk the subject, but on the morrow there arrived for Polly a letter addressed in his handwriting, an envelope, rather, which contained two postal orders, each for one pound, but not a word on the paper enfolding them. Well now, cried Polly within herself, if that ain't gentlemanly of him, who'd have thought it, and me just going to put my bracelet away, by which she meant that she was about to pawn her jewelry to procure a bridesmaid's dress. Gratitude for the moment quite overcame her. She sat down and wrote a letter of thanks, so worded that the recipient was beside himself for a whole day. He, in turn, wrote a letter of three full sheets, wherein, among other lyrical extravagances, he expressed a wish that by dying a death of slow torture he could endow Miss Sparks with fabulous wealth. How gladly would he Parrish, knowing that she would come to lay artificial flowers upon his grave, and to the end of her life, see that the letters on his tombstone were kept legible? So Polly made a handsome appearance at the wedding. As a matter of fact she came near to exciting unpleasantness between bride and bridegroom, so in discreet was Mr. Nibbie in his spoken and silent admiration. After consuming a great deal of indifferent champagne at Mr. Nibbie's lodgings, the blissful couple departed to spend a week at Bournemouth, and Polly returned to the room and Chastisbury Avenue, which henceforth she would occupy alone. And good riddance, she said to herself, petishly, as she stripped off her wedding garments. On this very evening she wrote to Mr. Gammon the letter he was never to read. Mr. Gammon had received an invitation to the ceremony, but through pressure of business was unable to accept it. He felt, too, that there would have been an awkwardness in thus meeting with Polly for the first time since their rupture on the embankment. Polly, of course, concluded that he kept away solely because he did not wish to see her. And the mood induced by this reflection, and by the turbid emotions natural to such a day, she penned her farewell to the insulting and perfidious man. Mr. Gammon was informed that never and nowhere would Miss Sparks demean herself by exchanging another word with him, that he was a low and vulgar and ignorant person, without manners enough for a road scraper. Moreover, that she had long since been the object of sincere attentions from someone so vastly his superior that they were not to be named in the same month. This overflow of feeling was some relief, but Polly could not rest until she had also written to Mrs. Clover. She made known to her aunt that Mr. Gammon had of late been guilty of such insolent behavior to her, the writer, that she had serious thoughts of seeking protection from the police. As he is such a great friend of yours and many's, I thought I had better warn you. Perhaps you might like to try and teach him better behavior, though I can't say as you are the person to do it, and you may be pleased to hear that I should not wonder if I am shortly to be married to a gentleman, which it won't surprise you after that if I am unable to see anything more of you and your family. But for a violent storm which broke out after eleven that night, just as she finished these compositions, Polly would have posted them forthwith, and Mr. Gammon would in that case have received his letter by the first post next morning. As it was they remained in Polly's room all night, and only an hour or two after their actual dispatch came the fateful telegram which was to make such a revolution in mis-spark sentiments and prospects. Mrs. Clover duly received her misive and gave a good deal of thought to it.  But in a few days she sent a quiet invitation to Polly's father, desiring the pleasure of his company at tea on Sunday. Mr. Sparks came. He was in very low spirits, for during the past week Chaffees had disgraced itself, if Chaffees could now be disgraced, by supplying a supper at eighteen pence per head, exclusive of liquors, to certain provincial representatives of rag bone and bottle dealers' alliance in town for the purpose of attending a public meeting. He called it art-breaking, he did. The long and short of it was he must prepare himself and Chaffees for the inevitable farewell. Why, it wasn't as if they hadn't supplied the rag-tags with a good supper. You should have seen the stuff put before them. Every blessed dish a hash-up of leavings and broken meats. No man with a vestige of self-respect could continue to wait at such entertainments. And this amid the gilding and the plush and the marble-top tables which sickened one with their surface imitation of real restaurants. Wouldn't you like to retire into private life, Ebenezer? asked his hostess. I'm sure you could, couldn't you? Well, Louisa, he replied with hesitation. If it comes to that, I could. But I hardly know how I should spend my time. The conversation turned to the subject of Polly, and as they were alone together, Mrs. Clover exhibited the letters she had received from that young lady. Now what have you to say to that, Ebenezer? Don't you call it shameful? Mr. Sparks sighed deeply. I've warned her, Louisa. I've warned her, solemn. What more can I do? You see how she goes on about Mr. Gammon? Now, I'm as sure as I am of anything that it's all lies. I don't believe Mr. Gammon has insulted her. There was something happened before she left Mrs. Bubbs. A bit of unpleasantness, there's no need to talk about. But I'm as sure as I sit here, Ebenezer, that Mr. Gammon wouldn't insult any girl in the way Polly says. Why don't you ask him? Mrs. Clover glanced at the door and betrayed uneasiness. To tell you the truth, he doesn't come here just now. You won't let it go any further, Ebenezer. But the truth is, he began to take a sort of fancy to many. And he told me about it, just as he ought to have done. And I had to tell him plain that it wasn't a bit of use. For one thing, Minnie was too young. And what's more, she hadn't even given half a thought to him in that way. And I wouldn't have the child worried about such things, because, as you know, she's delicate. And it doesn't take much to upset her in her mind. And then she can't sleep at nights. So I told Mr. Gammon plain and straight, and he took it in the right spirit. But he hasn't been here since. And I'm as sure as anything that Polly's letter is a nasty mean bit of falsehood, though I'm sorry to have to say it to you, Ebenezer. Mr. Sparks had the beginning of a cold in the head, which did not tend to make him cheerful. Sitting by the fireside, very upright in his decent suit of Sunday black, he looked more than ever like a clergyman, perchance a curate who was growing old without hope of a benefit. Fortunately, there entered about tea time a young man in much better spirits, evidently a welcome friend of Mrs. Clover's. His name was Nelson. On his arrival, Minnie joined the company, and it would have been remarked by anyone with an interest in the affairs of the family that Mrs. Clover was not at all reluctant to see her daughter and this young man amably conversing. Mr. Nelson had something not unlike the carriage and tone of a gentleman. He talked quietly, though light-heartedly, and from remarks he let fall it appeared that he was somehow connected with the decorative arts. Minnie and he dropped into a discussion of some new ceramic design put forth by doltons. They seemed to understand each other, and grew more animated as they exchanged opinions. The hostess, meanwhile, kept glancing at them with a smile of benevolence. At the tea-table, Mr. Nelson gratified Mr. Sparks by an allusion to almost the only topic, apart from Chaffee's, which could draw that grave man into continuous speech. Mr. Sparks had but one recreation that of angling. For many years he had devoted such hours of summer leisure as Chaffee's granted him to pescatory excursions, where it only as far as the Welsh harp. Finding this young man disposed to lend a respectful ear and to venture intelligent questions, he was presently discoursing at large. Chubb? Why Chubb's a kind of carp, don't you see? There's no fish pulls harder than a Chubb, not in the ordinary way of fishing. A Chubb, he'll pull just like a little pig, he will indeed, if you believe me. And a jack-uncle, put in Minnie, who liked to please the old man, doesn't a jack pull hard? Well, it's like this, my dear. It depends on the bottom, when it's jack. If the bottom's weedy, see, you must keep your line tight on a jack. Let him run, and you're as like as not to lose thirty or forty yards of your line. And the lines are expensive, aren't they, uncle? Well, my dear, I give eighteen and six for my preserved jack line, hundred yards, eighteen and six. There followed one of his old stories of a jack which had been eating up young ducklings on a certain pond. How he had baited for this fellow with a live duckling, the hook through the tips of its wings, got him in twenty minutes, and he turned the scale at four and twenty pounds. Roach and perch were afterward discussed. In Mr. Sparks' opinion the best bait for these fish was a bit of dough kneaded up with loose wool. Chaffees at all events, chaffees of today, would not have known its head-waiter could it have seen and heard him as he thus held forth. The hostess showed a fear lest Mr. Nelson should have more than enough of cockney angling. But he and Minnie were at one in good-natured attentiveness, and in the end Mrs. Clover overcame her uneasiness. A few days after this Minnie's mother, overcoming a secret scruple and yielding to a long desire, allowed herself to write a letter to Mr. Gammon. It was a very simple, not ill-composed letter. Its object to express regret for the ill temper she had shown, now many weeks ago, on her parting with Mr. Gammon in Kennington Road. Would he not look in at the china shop just in the old way? It would please her very much, for indeed she had never meant or dreamt a termination to their friendship. They had known each other so long, would not Mr. Gammon overlook her foolishness, remembering all she had had to go through. So she signed herself his friend always the same, and having done so, looked at the last line rather timidly, and made haste to close the letter. An answer arrived without undue delay, and Mrs. Clover went apart to read it, her breath quicker than usual, and her fingers tremulous. Mr. Gammon wrote with unthane cordiality, just like himself. He hoped to call very soon, though it might still be a few weeks. There was nothing to forgive on his part. He wasn't such a fool as to be angry with an old friend for a few hasty words. But the truth was, he had a lot of business on his hands. He was doing his best to get into a permanent sea at Quadlings of Norton Fallgate, and he knew Mrs. Clover would be glad to hear that. Let her give his kind regards to Miss Minnie, and believe him when he said that he was just as friendly disposed as ever. Beneath these words Mrs. Clover naturally enough detected nothing of the strange experiences in which Mr. Gammon was involved. Kind regards to Minnie, yes, there was the explanation of his silence. He called her his old friend, a phrase of double meaning. Mrs. Clover, in spite of her good sense, was vexed, and wished he had not said old. Why, had she not a year or two the advantage of him in youthfulness? End of Chapter 19. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Airy, North Carolina. Chapter 20 The Husband's Return Gammon would gladly have answered in person Mrs. Clover's letter, but he had promised Polly that he would neither visit the china shop nor in any way communicate with her aunt. Polly had made a great point of this, and he thought the reason was not far to seek. She still harbored jealousy of her cousin, and no doubt it would be delightful to make known just how and when she herself saw fit her triumph over Minnie. So he kept away from Battersea Park Road, though often wishing to spend an evening there in the old way, with Mrs. Clover's bright face on one side of him, and Minnie's modestly bent head on the other. It would have been so restful after all this excitement, for however he tried to grasp the facts, Mrs. Clover and Minnie still seemed remote from the world of wealth and titles. He could not change their names or see them in any other position, than that which was familiar and natural. In talk with Polly he always rose to hilarious anticipations, partly the result of amorous fervor. But this mood did not survive their parting. Alone he was frequently troubled with uneasiness, with misgiving, more so as the days went by without bringing any news from Greenacre. Under the cover of night he visited Laundice Mansions, and hung about there for half an hour, like unto one with sinister intentions. But his trouble profited him nothing. Polly was growing impatient. After the manner of her kind she brooded on suspicions, and hatched numerous more or less wild conjectures. What if Greenacre had spirited Lord Popperow away for some dark purpose of his own? Gammon himself could not help suspecting the mysterious man of deep projects, which would tend to the disadvantage of Lord Prospero's forsaken wife and child. At the end of a fortnight he wrote to Greenacre at the Bilboes, pressing for information. To his surprise and satisfaction this brought about an interview on the following day. Greenacre seemed radiant with a good conscience. 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 Palpero's willingness to concur and 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 Palpero 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 unbugged, she exclaimed, and it begins to look me jolly like I'm bugging, 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 Jurox there should be an end of this and that quickly. As he loitered without appetite over a particularly greasy breakfast, listening to Mrs. Bub's description of an ailment from which her youngest child was suffering, Moggy 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. I've come from Mrs. Clover's, sir, said this messenger, touching his hat. She'll be very glad to see you as soon as you could make it convenient to look round. Is that all? That was all. Nothing more could be learnt from the young man, and Gammon promised to come forth with. Luckily he could absent himself from quadlings today with no great harm, so after a few words with Mrs. Bub he pulled on his great coat and set off by the speediest way. Only after starting did he remember his promise to Polly. That could not be helped. The case seemed to be urgent, and he must beg for indulgence. He had an appointment with Polly for six o'clock this evening. In the excitement of decisive action, it being the last day of the year, she would probably overlook this small matter. He found Mrs. Clover in the shop. She readened at sight of him, and after a hurried greeting asked him to step into the parlor, where she carefully closed the door. Mr. Gammon, have you heard anything about my husband? The question disconcerted him. He tried ineffectually to shape a denial. You have. I can see you have. It doesn't matter. I don't want you to tell me anything, but he's now in this house. She was greatly agitated, not angry, but beset by perplexities and distress. He came last night about ten o'clock, came to the door wrapped up like a stranger. It was almost too much for me when I heard his voice. He wanted to come in, to stay, and of course I let him. Minnie had to know, poor girl. He's in the spare room. Did you know he meant to come? I hadn't an idea of it, Mrs. Clover. But you know something about him. He tells me you do. He wants to see you. There's only one thing I ask. Has he been doing wrong? Oh, do tell me that. Gammon protested that he knew nothing of the kind, and added that he had only seen the man once, for a minute, now more than a month ago. And you kept it from me, said his friend reproachfully. I didn't think you'd have done that, Mr. Gammon. There was a reason. I shouldn't have thought of doing it if there hadn't been a good reason. Never mind. I won't interfere. I feel as if it had nothing to do with me. Will you go upstairs to him? He looks to me as if he hadn't very long to live. Indeed he does. Listen, that's his cough. Oh, I am so upset. It came so sudden, and to think you'd seen him and never told me. Never mind. Go up to him, if you will, and see what he wants with you. Gammon did her bidding. He ascended lightly and tapped at the door, Mrs. Clover indicated. A cough sounded from within, then a voice which the visitor recognized, saying, come in. On the bed but fully dressed lay a tall meager man with a woollen comforter about his neck. The room was in good order, and warmed by a fire which the sufferer's condition seemed to make very necessary. He fixed his eyes on Gammon as if trying to smile, but defeated in the effort by pain and misery. I'm here, you see, he said hoarsely. There's no doubt about me now. Got a bad cold, eh? replied the other, as cheerfully as he could. Yes, a cold? Always have a cold. Would you mind reaching me the kettle? He poured out some brandy from a bottle which stood on the floor and mixed it with a little hot water. Gammon the while observed him with much curiosity. In five years or a little more he had become an old and feeble man. This thin hair was all but completely gray. His flesh had wasted and discolored. His hand trembled, his breath came with difficulty. Present illness accounted perhaps for the latter's symptoms, but from that glimpse of him in Norton Fallgate Gammon had known that he was much aged and shaken. Hat over Coden Muffler had partly disguised what was now evident. He spoke with the accent of an educated man and in the tone of one whom nature had endowed with amiable qualities. The bottle beside him seemed to explain certain peculiarities of his manner. When he had drunk thirstily he raised himself to a sitting posture and nodded to his visitor an invitation to take a chair. I'm here, you see, Gammon, here at last. Why did you come? Why? Ah, why indeed. Having sighed out this ejaculation he seemed to grow absent to forget that he was not alone. A violent cough shook him into wakefulness again. He stared at Gammon with red eyes full of pain and fear and said thickly, Are you an honest man? You? Well, I hope so. Try to be. What's his name? You know him, don't you? Do you mean Greenacre? asked Gammon, feeling very uncomfortable, for the man before him looked like one who struggles for his last breath. Greenacre, yes, but as he told you about me. Gammon answered with a simple truth. The situation alarmed him and he would have nothing more to do with conspiracy in such a case. He could not feel sure that his explanations were followed and understood. Now and then the bloodshot eyes turned blankly to him, as if in a drunken dream, but in the end he saw a look of satisfaction.  We used to know each other, you know when. My wife likes you, doesn't she? We've always been friends, of course, Gammon replied. Would you mind giving me the kettle? He mixed another glass of brandy, spilling a great deal in the process. I don't offer you any Greenacre. It's medicine. I take it as such. One doesn't offer one's friends a glass of medicine, you know, Greenacre. My name is Gammon. What am I thinking about? There was something I wanted to ask you. Yes, of course. Does she know? You mean does your wife know who you really are? Said Gammon in a cautious voice. Haven't you told her? Not yet. Then I don't think anyone else has. The man had fallen back upon his pillow. He began to cough, struggle to raise himself, and became seated on the edge of the bed. Well, it's time we were going. Where to, asked Gammon. The other stared at him in surprise and distress. Surely I haven't to tell you all over again, weren't you listening?  Surely you ought to have a clear head the first thing in the morning. Just tell me again in a word or two. What can I do for you? Do you want to see anybody? Yes, yes, I remember. He laid a hand on his companion's shoulder. The matter stands thus, Greenacre. I trust you implicitly. Once more I assure you of that. But it is absolutely necessary for me to see a solicitor. All right. What's his name? I'll tell you. Cuthbertson. Old jury chambers. But first of all, that has come to an understanding about that man quaddling. I called upon his brother. Why, I told you all of that before, didn't I? You had just been there when I met you in Norton Fallgate, said Gammon, who felt that before long his own wits would begin to wander. To be sure. And now we really must be going. He stood up, staggering, gained his balance, and walked to the window. The prospect then seemed to recall him to a consciousness of the actual present, and he looked around appealingly, distressfully. I tell you what it is, said Gammon. You ought to get into bed and have a doctor. Shall I help you? No, no. I regret that I came here, Greenacre. I am not welcome. How could I expect to be? If I am going to be ill, it mustn't be here.  That would be best. The truth is, I feel terribly queer, Greenacre. Suppose I… suppose I died here. Of course I haunt never to have come. Think of the talk there would be. And that's just what I wanted to spare them, the talk and the disgrace. It can all be managed by my solicitor. But I felt that… come I must. After all, you see, it's home. You understand that? It's really my home. I've been here often at night, just to see the house. The wonder is that I didn't come in before. Of course I knew I couldn't be welcome. But one's wife and child, Greenacre. The real wife, whether the others alive or not. Gemin started. What did you say? He asked in a whisper. Nothing, nothing.  That's quite enough. The point is this now. I must destroy that will and get Cuthbertson to draw a deed of gift, all in order, you know, but nothing that could get wind and make a scandal. The will would be publicly known. I ought to have remembered that. I repeat, Greenacre, that what I have to do is to provide for them both without causing them any trouble or disgrace. Catching the listener's eye he became silent and confused for a moment, then added quickly, I beg your pardon, I addressed you by the wrong name. Gemin, I meant to say. Gemin, my wife's friend. A thoroughly honest man. Have I made myself clear, Gemin? I—you see how the matter stands? Gemin was beginning to see that the matter stood in a perilous position, and that the sooner Mr. Cuthbertson, if such a person existed, could be brought on to the scene, the better for everyone concerned. He asked himself whether he ought to summon Mrs. Clover. His glance towards the door must have betrayed his thought, for the sick man spoke as though in reply to it. We will say nothing to her yet, if you please. I begin to feel a little better. Our long confidential talk has done me good. By the by, Greenacre, I beg your pardon, Gemin. You quite understand that this is all in the strictest confidence? I trust you implicitly, as my dear wife's friend. It is all in her interests, as you see. I think now if you would kindly get a cab— yes, I feel quite equal to it now—we will go to loudest mansions. The voice was thin, husky, senile, but his tone had more of rationality, and he appeared to have made up his mind to a course of action. Gemin presently went downstairs and told Mrs. Clover that her husband wished to go into town on business. She made no objection, but asked whether Gemin would take the responsibility of looking after him. This he promised, whether the man would return hither or not, was left uncertain. If he goes to his own house, said Gemin, I'll see him safe there, and let you know. He lives in the West End. Now don't upset yourself. If he doesn't come back, you shall know where he is. And if you want to, you shall go and see him. I promise you that. I know all about him, and so shall you. So just keep yourself quiet. He'll have to go to bed and stay there. Anyone can see that. If you take my advice, you'll let us go out quietly and not speak to him. Just trust to me, Mrs. Clover. Do you think he's in his right mind? She asked. Well, he's very shaky, and ought to be kept quiet. What has he told you? Nothing at all. He sat crying for an hour last night, and talked about the old times. When I asked questions, he put me off, and when I went into his room this morning, he said nothing except that he wanted to see you, and that he must have some brandy for his cold. All right, let us leave the house quietly, and I'll see you again today or tomorrow. Oh, I say, has a man called Greenacre been here at any time? I don't know any one of that name. He answered Mrs. Clover as she turned distressfully away. A cab was summoned, and Gavin, having helped the sick man to clothe himself warmly and overcoat and muffler, let him from the house. They drove straight away to Laundice Mansions. End of Chapter 20. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Erie, North Carolina. Chapter 21 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 21 His Lordship's Will. The movement of the vehicle made Lord Palpero drowsy. In ten minutes he seemed to be asleep, and Gavin had to catch his hat as it was falling forward. When the four-wheeler jolted more than usual, he uttered groans. Once he shouted loudly, and for a moment stared about him in terror. The man of commerce had never made so unpleasant a journey in his life. On arriving at their destination it was with much difficulty that Gavin aroused his companion, and with still more that he conveyed him from the cab into the building. A house-porter, who smiled significantly, assisting in the job. Lord Palpero went thoroughly awakened, coughed, groaned, and gassed in a most alarming way. His flat was on the first floor before reaching it he began to shed tears, and to beg that his medical man might be called immediately. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman dressed as a housekeeper, who viewed his lordship with no great concern. She promised to send a message to the doctors, and left the two men alone in a room comfortably furnished, but without elegance or expensiveness. Gavin waited upon the invalid, placed him at ease by the fireside, and reached him a cellaret from a cupboard full of various liquors. A few drafts of a restorative enabled Lord Palpero to articulate, and he inquired if any letters had arrived for him. Look on the writing table, Greenacre! Anything there? There were two letters. The invalid examined them with disappointment, and tossed them aside. Beggars and black mailers, he muttered, nobody else writes to me. Of a sudden it occurred to him that he was forgetting the duties of hospitality. He urged his guest to take refreshment. He roused himself, went to the cupboard, brought out half a dozen kinds of beverage. And, of course, you will lunch with me, or will it be dinner? Yes, yes, luncheon, of course. Excuse me for one moment. I must give some orders. He left the room.  An observer of more education would have glanced with peculiar interest at the books. Several volumes lay on the table, one of them a recent work on gypsies, another dealing with the antiquities of Cornwall. For the town traveller these things, of course, had no significance, but he remarked a painting on the wall which was probably a portrait of one of Lord Paul Perot's ancestors, a youngish man, the tree-foil knows not to be mistaken, in a strange wild costume, his head bare under a sky blackening to storm, in his hand a sort of hunting knife, and one of his feet resting on a dead wolf. When his host reappeared, Gavin asked him whom the picture represented. That, that's my father, years before I was born. They tell me that he used to say that in his life he had only done one thing to be proud of. It wasn't some part of Russia. He killed a wolf at close quarters. Only a knife to fight with. He was a fine man, my father. Looks it, don't you think? Thirst was upon him again. He drank the first liquor that came to hand, and then sat down and was silent. You feel better? said Gavin. Better? Oh, thanks, much the same. I shan't be better till things are settled. That won't be long. I expect to hear from Greenacre. I think you said you knew Greenacre. What is he doing for you? Gavin inquired, thinking he might as well take advantage of this lucid moment, the result seemingly of alcoholic stimulation. Doing? We'll talk of that presently.  I regret that I didn't know him long ago. He sighed and began to wander. My best year's gone, gone. You remember what I was, Gavin? We don't live like other people. Something wrong in our blood. We go down, down. But if I had lived as I was, and let the cursed title alone. That was my mistake, Greenacre. I had found happiness. A good wife. You know my wife? What am I saying? Of course you do. Never an unkind word from her. Never one. How many men can say that? The best woman living, Greenacre. You keep forgetting who I am, said his guest bluntly. Lord Poppero gave him a look of surprise, and with effort cleared his thoughts. Ah, I called you, Greenacre. Excuse me, Gavin, my wife's friend. Be her friend still. A better woman doesn't live, believe me. You will lunch with me, Gavin? We are to have a long talk, and I want you to go with me to my solicitors. I must settle that today. I thought Greenacre would be back. The fact is, you know, I must recover my health. The South of Europe, Greenacre thinks, and I agree with him. A place where we can live quietly. My wife and the little girl know when to bother us or to gossip. She shall know when we get there, not before. This climate is bad for me, killing me. In fact, I hope to start in a few days. Just us three. I and my wife and the little girl. She shall use the title if she likes. If not, we'll leave it behind us. Ah, that was my misfortune, you know. It ought to have come to me. He was seized with a hiccup, which in a few moments became so violent that he had to abandon the attempt to converse. When it had lasted for half an hour, Gammon found his position intolerable. He rose, meaning to leave the room and speak to the housekeeper, but just then the door opened to admit Lord Paul Perot's medical attendant. This gentleman, after a glance at the patient who was not aware of his presence, put a few questions to Gammon. The latter then withdrew quietly, went out from the flat, and down into the street where the doctor's carriage stood waiting. He was bewildered with a novelty of experience, felt thoroughly out of his element, and would have liked to have escaped from these complications by simply taking a cab to Norton Fallgate and forgetting all he left behind. But his promise to Mrs. Clover, or Lady Paul Perot, forbade this. He was very curious as to the proceedings of that mysterious fellow Greenacre, who, as likely as not, had got Lord Paul Perot into his power for rascally purposes. What was that half-herd allusion to another wife, who might be alive or dead? Nothing to cause astonishment, assuredly, but the matter ought to be cleared up. He crossed the street and walked up and down, keeping his eye on loudest mansions. Before long the doctor came out and drove away. After much indecision Gammon again entered and knocked at the door of his noble friend. The housekeeper said that Lord Paul Perot was asking for him impatiently. But when he entered the sitting-room, there lay his lordship on the sofa, fast asleep. The sleep lasted for a couple of hours, during which Gammon sat in the room, bearing tedium as best he could. He was afraid to go away, lest an opportunity of learning something important should be lost. But never had time passed so slowly. Some neglect of business was involved, but fortunately he had no appointment that could not be postponed. As he said to himself, it was better to see the thing through, and to make the most of Greenacre's absence. When Lord Paul Perot at length awoke, he had command of his intellect, such as remain to him, but groaned in severe pain. His first inquiry was whether any letter or telegram had arrived. Assured that there was nothing, he tottered about the room for a few minutes, and declared that he must go to bed. I always feel better in the evening, Gammon. You'll excuse me, I know. We are old friends. I must see you again today. You'll promise to come back? Oh, how ill I am! I don't think this can go on much longer. What did the doctor tell you to do? Oh, nothing, nothing! was the irritable reply. Of course I must get away as soon as possible, if only I could hear from Greenacre. Seeing there was no likelihood of the man's leaving home for the next few hours, Gammon promised to return in the afternoon, and so took his leave. On the stairs he passed two ladies, who, as he learned in a moment by the sound of their knock above, were making a call upon the invalid. In the streets stood their carriage. He watched it for some time from the other side of the way, until the ladies came forth again. It would have soothed Gammon's mind could he have known that they were Lord Paul Perot's sister and his niece. Just as the brief daylight was flickering out, the air had begun to nip with a thread of frost. He once more presented himself at Laundice Mansions. In the meantime he had seen Polly Sparks, informed her of what was happening, and received her promise that she would take no step until he could communicate with her again. This interview revived his spirits. He felt equal to another effort such as that of the morning, which had taxed him more than the hardest days work he was ever called upon to do. Lord Paul Perot again sat by the fireside with a decanter and glass within his reach. He was evidently more at ease, but seemed to have a difficulty in recognizing his visitor. Have you come from Greenacre? He asked cautiously, peering through the dull light. I don't know anything about him. No. I cannot understand why I have no news from him. Pray sit down, we were talking about. Presently he shook his recollections into order. And when a lamp was brought in he began to talk lucidly. Gammon, I feel very uneasy in my mind. This morning I quite intended to have gone and seen Cuthbertson, but I was taken ill, you know. What is the time? I wonder whether Cuthbertson is likely to be at his office still. That's your lawyer, isn't it? Would you like me to go and try to get hold of him? I might bring him here. You are very kind, Gammon. For some reason I feel that I really ought to see him today. Suppose we go together. But you oughtn't to be out at night, ought you? Oh, I feel much better. Besides, we shall drive, you know. Quite comfortable. I really think we will go. Then you shall come back and dine with me. Yes, I think we will go. Between this decision and the actual step half an hour was wasted in doubts, fresh resolves, moments of forgetfulness, and slow preparation. A messenger had been dispatched for a cab, and at length almost by force Gammon succeeded in getting his Lordship down the stairs and out into the street.  Throughout the journey Lord Paparot kept up a constant babbling which he meant for impressive talk. Much of it was inaudible to his companion from the noise of the cab, and the sentences that could be distinguished were mere repetitions of what he had said before leaving home. That he felt it absolutely necessary to see Cuthbertson, and that he could not understand Greenacre's silence. They reached the solicitor's office at about half past five. Lord Paparot entered only to return with a face of disappointment. He is gone, no one there but a clerk, no use. Couldn't you find him at his private address? asked Gammon. Private address? To be sure. I'll go in again and ask for it. Mr. Cuthbertson lived at Streetham. I'll tell you what, said Lord Paparot, whose mind seemed to be invigorated by his activity. We'll go to Streetham, but first of all we must have something to eat. The fact is, I had no lunch. I'd begin to feel rather faint. He bade the cab men drive to any restaurant not far away. There the vehicle was dismissed, and they sat down to a meal. Gammon as usual ate heartily. Lord Paparot pretended to do the same, but in reality swallowed only a few mouthfuls and gave his more serious attention to the wine. Every few minutes he assured his companion in a whisper that he would feel quite at ease when he had seen Cuthbertson. They looked out the trains to Streetham, and left just in time to catch one. On the journey his lordship dozed. He was growing very husky again, and the cough shook him badly after each effort to talk, so Gammon felt glad to see him resting. By the gaslight in the railway carriage his face appeared to flush and go pale, alternately. At moments it looked horribly cadaverous with its half-opened eyes, shriveled lips, and thin sharp high-ridged nose. On arriving the man lost all consciousness of where he was and what he purposed. It took many minutes before Gammon could convey him into a cab and extort from him Mr. Cuthbertson's address. Greenacre, his lordship kept repeating, I trust you implicitly. I am convinced you have my interests at heart. When all is settled I shall show myself grateful. Believe me. Between seven and eight o'clock they drove up to a house on Streetham Hill, and without consulting Lord Palperot, Gammon went to Parley at the door. Ill luck pursued them. Mr. Cuthbertson was dining in town and could not be home till late. When made to understand this, Lord Palperot passed from lethargy to violent agitation. We must go back at once, he exclaimed. To londus mansions at one's Greenacre, tell him to drive straight to Sloane Street. You don't know what depends upon it. We must lose not a moment. The cabman consented, and the return journey began at a good speed. When Gammon, out of regard for the invalid's condition, insisted on having the window of the handsome dropped, Lord Palperot grumbled and lamented. The cool air did him good. He was beginning to breathe more easily than he had done for a long time.  I have noticed it in you before. You take too much upon yourself. I suppose it's no use telling you once more, said his companion, that my name isn't Greenacre. Dear me, dear me, I beg your pardon a thousand times. I meant to say, Gammon. I can't tell you, Gammon, how much I feel your kindness. But for you I should never have managed all this in my state of health. You don't mind coming home with me? Of course not. What are you going to do when you get there? I told you, my dear Gammon, it shall be done this very night, whether I have news or not. I shall see Cuthbert sin the first thing tomorrow and get him to draw the deed of gift. That settles everything, no gossip, no scandal, if anything should happen. Life is so uncertain, and as you see, I am in anything but robust health. Yes, it shall be done this very night. Tired of futile questioning, Gammon resolved to wait and see what was done, though it seemed to him more than likely that nothing at all would come of these vehement expressions. At all events Lord Talparo was now wide awake, and seemed in no danger of relapsing into the semi-comatose or semi-delirious condition. He no longer addressed his companion by the name of Greenacre. His talk was marked with a rational reserve. He watched the course of their drive along the highways of south London and showed satisfaction as they approached his own district. The cabman was paid with careless liberality, and Lord Talparo ran up the stairs to his flat. More strictly speaking he ran for a few yards, when breath failed him, and it was all he could do to stagger with loud pantings of the rest of the ascent. Arrived in his sitting room he sank exhausted onto the nearest chair. Gammon saw that he pointed feebly to the drink-covered and heard a gasp that sounded like, Brandy. Better not, replied the clear-headed man, I wouldn't if I were you. But his lordship insisted, looking reproachfully, and the Brandy was produced. It did him good, that is to say, it brought color to his face, and enabled him to sit upright. No sooner was he thus recovered than his eyes fell upon the envelope of a telegram, which lay on his writing-table. There it is at last! He tore the paper, all but sobbing with agony of impatience. Good God! I can't see it! I've gone half-blind all at once. Read it for me, Gammon. Hope see you to-night, important news, if not in morning, Greenacre. Where did he send it from? Euston, six o'clock. Then he came by the Irish day-mail. Why didn't I think of that and meet the train? What does he mean by to-night or to-morrow morning? What does he mean? How can I tell? replied Gammon. Perhaps he has called here while you were away. Lord Palparo rang the bell, only to find that no one had asked for him. He was in a state of pitiable agitation, kept shuffling about the room with coughs and gasps, demanding ceaselessly why Greenacre left the hour of his appearance uncertain. Gammon, scarcely less excited in his own way, shouted assurances that the fellow might turn up at any moment. It was not yet ten o'clock. Why not sit down and wait quietly? I will, said the other. I will thank you, Gammon. I will sit down and wait. But I cannot conceive why he didn't come straight here from Euston. I may as well tell you he has been to Ireland for me on business of the greatest importance. I am not impatient without cause. I trust Greenacre implicitly. He had a gentleman's education. I am convinced he could not deceive me. More Brandy helped him to surmount this crisis, than he was silent for a few minutes. Gammon thought he had begun to doze again, but of a sudden he spoke distinctly and earnestly. I am forgetting. You remember what I had decided to do. I shall be done at once, Gammon. I know it will relieve my mind. He rose, went to the writing table, unlocked a drawer, and took out a large sealed envelope on which something was written. Gammon, you are witness of what I now do. This is my will, executed about a year ago. I have reasons for wishing to dispose of my property in another way. Cuthbertson will see to that for me to-morrow. A will becomes public. I did not think of that at the time. There. He threw the sealed packet into the fire, where it was quickly caught by the flames, and consumed. Now I feel easier in my mind, much easier. He drank from the replenished glass, smiling and nodding. End of Chapter 21 Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Erie, North Carolina