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?"