on, I certainly will not!"

"Thank you, Polly, I felt a bit afraid you might say yes."

The tone was not offensive, whatever the words might be, and the laugh
that came after would have softened any repartee, with its undernote of
good humour and harmless gaiety. Biting her lips to preserve the
dignity of silence, Polly passed downstairs. Sunshine through a landing
window illumined the dust floating thickly about the staircase and
heated the familiar blend of lodging-house smells--the closeness of
small rooms that are never cleansed, the dry rot of wall-paper,
plaster, and old wood, the fustiness of clogged carpets trodden thin,
the ever-rising vapours from a sluttish kitchen. As Moggie happened to
be wiping down the front steps the door stood open, affording a glimpse
of trams and omnibuses, cabs and carts, with pedestrians bobbing past
in endless variety--the life of Kennington Road--all dust and sweat
under a glaring summer sun. To Miss Sparkes a cheery and inviting
spectacle--for the whole day was before her, to lounge or ramble until
the hour which summoned her to the agreeable business of selling
programmes at a fashionable theatre. The employment was precarious;
even with luck in the way of tips it meant nothing very brilliant; but
something had happened lately which made Polly indifferent to this view
of the matter. She had a secret, and enjoyed it all the more because it
enabled her to excite not envy alone, but dark suspicions in the people
who observed her.

Mrs. Bubb, for instance--who so far presumed upon old acquaintance as
to ask blunt questions, and offer homely advice--plainly thought she
was going astray. It amused Polly to encourage this misconception, and
to take offence on every opportunity. As she went down into the kitchen
she fingered a gold watch-chain that hung from her blouse to a little
pocket at her waist. Mrs. Bubb would spy it at once, and in course of
the quarrel about this morning's hot water would be sure to allude to
it.

It turned out one of the finest frays Polly had ever enjoyed, and was
still rich in possibilities when, at something past eleven, the kitchen
door suddenly opened and there entered Mr. Gammon.

CHAPTER II

A MISSING UNCLE

He glanced at Mrs. Bubb, at the disorderly remnants of breakfast on the
long deal table, then at Polly, whose face was crimson with the joy of
combat.

"Don't let me interrupt you, ladies. Blaze away! if I may so express
myself. I