I'll be going then," he muttered. "Good night. Jolly long walk before
me still."

"I'm very sorry. I am, really."

"Oh, never mind! When shall I see you again?"

The crucial moment was past. Polly drew a step back and held the door.

"I'll write before long. Good night, and thank you."

Mr. Parish plodded away down the avenue, saying to himself that he was
blest if he'd be made a fool of like this much longer.

The next morning Polly wrote a line to Mr. Gammon, and two days later,
on Sunday, they met in that little strip of garden on the Embankment
which lies between Charing Cross Station and Waterloo Bridge. It was
the first week of October; a cold wind rustled the yellowing plane
trees, and open-air seats offered no strong temptation. The two
conversed as they walked along. Polly had not mentioned in her letter
any special reason for wishing to see Mr. Gammon, nor did she hasten to
make known her discovery.

"Why do you wear a 'at like that on a Sunday?" she began by asking,
tartly.

"Because it's comfortable, I suppose," answered Gammon, reflecting for
the first time that it was not very respectful to come to this
rendezvous in a "bowler." Polly had never mentioned the matter before,
though she had thought about it. "You like the chimney-pot better?"

"Why, of course I do. On a Sunday, too, who wouldn't?"

"I'll bear it in mind, my dear. My chimney-pot wants ironing. Have it
done to-morrow if I can find time."

Polly scrutinized the costume of a girl walking with a soldier, and
asked all at once indifferently:

"Do you know anybody called Gildersleeve?"

"Gildersleeve? Don't think so. No. Why?"

She searched his face to make sure that he did not simulate ignorance.

"Well, you wanted me to find out where that lady lived--you know--her
as was with Mr. C--at the theatre."

"And you've got it?" cried Gammon excitedly.

Yes, she had got it, and by consulting a directory at a public-house
she had discovered the name of the family residing at that address.
Gildersleeve? The name conveyed nothing to Mr. Gammon; none the less he
was delighted.

"Good for you, Polly! But how did you do it?"

She put on an air of mystery. Never mind how; there was the address, if
he could make any use of it. Gammon smiled provokingly.

"Some friend of yours, eh? You're well off for friends, Polly. I ask no
questions, my dear; no business of mine. Much obliged to you, all the
same."

"If you're so particular about who