gle was all
at once dispersed by a candle in the hand of Mrs. Bubb.

"Don't alarm yourself," shouted Gammon cheerily, "I'm only kicking this
fellow out. No one hurt."

"Well, Mr. Gammon, I do think--"

But the landlady's protest was cut short by a loud slamming of the
house-door.

"It's nothing," said the man of commerce, breathing hard. "Very sorry
to have disturbed you all. It shan't happen again. Good night, Mrs.
Bubb."

He ran up to his room, laughed a good deal as he undressed, and was
asleep five minutes afterwards. Before closing his eyes he said to
himself that he must rise at seven; business claimed him tomorrow, and
he felt it necessary to see Mrs. Clover (or Lady Polperro) with the
least possible delay. However tired, Gammon could always wake at the
hour he appointed. The dark, snowy morning found him little disposed to
turn out; he had something of a headache, and a very bad taste in the
mouth; for all that he faced duty with his accustomed vigour. Of course
he had to leave the house without breakfast, but a cup of tea at the
nearest eating-house supplied his immediate wants, and straightway he
betook himself to the china shop near Battersea Park Road.

That was not a pleasant meeting with his friend Mrs. Clover. To
describe all that had happened yesterday would have taxed his powers at
any time; at eight-thirty a.m. on the first of January, his head aching
and his stomach ill at ease, he was not likely to achieve much in the
way of lucid narrative. Mrs. Clover regarded him with a severe look.
His manifest black eye, and an unwonted slovenliness of appearance,
could not but suggest that he had taken leave of the bygone year in a
too fervid spirit. His explanations she found difficulty in believing,
but the upshot of it all--the fact that her husband lay at St.
Bartholomew's Hospital--seemed beyond doubt, and this it was that
mainly concerned her.

"I shall go at once," she said in a hard tone, turning her face from
him.

"But there's something else I must tell you," pursued Gammon, with much
awkwardness. "You don't know--who to ask for."

The woman's eyes, even now not in their depths unkindly, searched him
with a startled expression.

"I suppose I shall ask for Mr. Clover?"

"They wouldn't know who you meant. That isn't his real name."

A cry escaped her; she turned pale.

"Not his real name? I thought it--I was afraid of that! Who am I, then?
What--what have I a right to call myself?"