. 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."

He dictated with all possible brevity. The letter was folded and
enclosed. Only in the last few minutes had Gammon quite decided to
share his knowledge with Polly. As she bent her head and wrote,
something in the attitude--perhaps a suggestion of
domesticity--appealed to his emotions, which were ready for such a
juncture as this. After all there were not many girls prettier than
Polly, or with more of the attractiveness of their sex. He looke