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 anyone stamp a
letter so nicely. As she gazed at the completed missive Polly had a
sudden thought which made a change in her countenance. She looked round.

"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 believe there is," replied the other thoughtfully. "I'll get a look
at it somewhere. He's scamp enough for anything, I've 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 Polperro. He couldn't, of course, till the death of his
father. Most likely the old man was alive when he married your aunt.
It's easy to understand now why he's led such a queer life, isn't it? 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 Pollys 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. Indeed, she bent her head, half hiding her face
against him.

"You know that letter I sent you?"

"What's in it? Something nicey-picey?"

"I want you to let me go to the 'ouse 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, deary?"

"Of course I will, if you really mean it."

"I do, it was a _narsty_ letter. I couldn't bear to have you read it
now."

Gammon had no difficulty in imagining the kind of e