"I posted it this morning," Polly answered in a timidly sullen voice. He had not been home since breakfast-time. She had written to him? Now, wasn't that a queer thing! All yesterday he, too, had thought of writing, and to-day would have done so in any case. Never mind, the letter would be waiting for him. Was it nice? Was it sweet and amiable, like herself? Ha ha! Ho ho! As he laughed the cab drew up with a jerk. Polly saw that she was in a familiar thoroughfare and in front of a respectable establishment, but it was not without a little distrust that she entered by the private door and went upstairs. A large room, so ugly and uncomfortable that it helped to reassure her, was quickly lighted. Gammon requested the woman in attendance to bring pen, ink, and paper, whereat Polly again stared her surprise. "Come and sit over here," said Gammon, "away from the door. Now make yourself comfortable, old girl. Sure you won't have anything?" The writing materials were brought; the door was closed. "Now we're all right. A long time since we saw each other, Polly. Have you heard anything? Any more about Mr. C.?" She shook her head. "Well, look here now, I want you to write to him. You didn't believe me when I said I knew. Well, you'll believe me now. I want you to write to him, and to ask him to meet you _here_. If he won't come I know what to do next. But you just write a few lines; you know how. You want to see him at this coffee tavern at five o'clock tomorrow; he's to come to the private door and ask for Miss--let's say Miss Ellis--that'll do. I shall be here, but not in the room at first; I'll come in when you've had a little talk. I don't think he'll refuse to come when he sees you've got his address." "What is the address?" "Patience, my dear; wait till you've written the letter. I'll walk up and down the room whilst you do it." He began pacing, but Polly made no movement towards the table. She was strangely sullen, or, perhaps, depressed; not at all like herself, even when in anger. She cast glances at her companion, and seemed desirous of saying something--of making some protest--but her tongue failed her. "No hurry," Gammon remarked, after humming through a tune. "Think it out. Only a line or two." "Are you telling me the truth about my letter?" she suddenly asked. "You haven't read it?" "I assure you I haven't. That's a treat for when I get home." Still she delayed, but before Gammon had taken many more steps she was seated at the table, and biting the end of the penholder. "You'll have to tell me what to say." "All right. Take the words down."