AN ALLY IN THE QUEST
Commercially he was doing well. Quodling and Son 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 Sparkes? Polly be hanged. 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-coloured 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.
It worried him this afternoon as he left Quodlings in Norton Folgate
and walked towards 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 Threadneedle Street a hand
arrested him.
"Just the man I wanted," said the voice of Mr. Greenacre. He was in an
elegant overcoat, with a 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 to-day."
Mr. Gammon flattered himself that he knew the City tolerably well, but
with the place of refreshment to which his friend now led him he was
totally unacquainted. It stood or lurked in a very obscure by-way
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 Gammon 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 in a corner made cosy with a deep divan.
"Bilboes? Oh, I originated it in the days gone by. The proprietor was a
man called William Bowes--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 Gammon, when an
order for drinks had been given.
"Promise--promise? Nonsense! You're wool-gathering to-day, my dear boy.
By the by, I called at your place on Sunday. I was driving a very fresh
pony, new to harness; promised 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 Gammon presently.
"Thanks; feel remarkably well. A touch of liver now and then, but
nothing serious. By the by, anything I can do for you? Any genealogy?"
Gammon had drained his tumbler of hot whisky, and felt better for it.
With the 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 Gildersleeve?" he asked with a laugh.
His companion smiled cheerfully, looking at once more interested.
"Gildersleeve! Why, yes, there was a boy of that name--no, no; it was
Gildersleeves, I remember. Any connexion with Quodling?"
"Can't say. The people I mean live in Stanhope Gardens. I don't know
anything about them."
"Like to?"
Gammon admitted that the name had a significance for him. A matter of
curiosity.
"No harm in a bit of genealogy," said Greenacre. "Always interesting.
Stanhope Gardens? What number?"
He urged no further question and gave no promise, but Gammon 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 cats'-meat woman who, after purveying for the cats at a 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 pussy-cats at
the cottage doors. Touch of nature that, isn't it? By the by, you were
speaking of a family named Gildersleeve."
He added this, absently looking about the little room, which just now
they had to themselves.
"Know anything about them?" asked Gammon, eyeing him curiously.
"I was just going to say--ah, yes, to be sure, the Gildersleeves. Now I
wonder, Gammon--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."
Gammon 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 learnt. 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 Francis Quodling the silk broker?
Nothing to me, Gammon; 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 black-and-tan to dispose of?"
He passed into a vein so chatty and so amiable that Gammon 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 Quodling in the face,
Francis Quodling? Just so. H'm. I can assure you, then, that no such
individual lives at the house we're speaking of."
"No, but perhaps--"
"One moment. The Gildersleeves 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.
"Everyday 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 counsel 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 fulfilment 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 new light on the case.
"Then the mistake is mine. It's more interesting than ever. This puts
me on my mettle, 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 ay now; appointment at
ten-thirty. But you all hear from me in a day or two."
"I say," inquired Gammon, "what's your dress now?"
"Address?--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 favourable 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.
Quodling. 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 honour of taking his ludship's
card in--Lord Poll-parrot. Can't say I ever heard of him before."
"What d'you mean? See here, I'm in a hurry; no kid, Simpson."
"Well, it might be Poll-parrot. As a matter of fact, it's Lord
Polperro."
Gammon gazed fixedly at the young man.
"Lord Polperro? By jorrocks!"
"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 connexion between the family of
Quodling 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 Folgate. Then a step
sounded behind him. He moved aside and saw a man in a heavy fur-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 Polperro. 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?"