"Why, my dear fellow, are not clover and trefoil the same things? Don't you see? Trefoyle. Only a little difference of accent."
"Never heard the word. Did you, Polly?"
"Not me."
"Ah! not unnatural. An out-of-the-way word." Greenacre hid his contempt beneath a smile. "Well now, I repeat that Lord Polperro longs to return to the bosom of his family. He has even gone in the darkness of the night to look at his wife's abode, and returned home in misery. A fact! At this moment—your attention, I beg—I am assisting him to form a plan by which he will be enabled to live a natural life without the unpleasantness of public gossip. I do not yet feel at liberty to describe our project, but it is ripening. What I ask you is this. Will you trust us? Miss Sparkes, have I your confidence?"
"It's all very well," threw in Gammon, before Polly could reply. "But what if he drops down dead, as you say he might do? What about his family then?"
"Gammon," replied the other with great solemnity, "I asked whether I had your confidence. Do you, or do you not, believe me when I tell you that Lord Polperro has long since executed a will by which not only are his wife and his daughter amply—most amply—provided for, but even more distant relatives on his wife's side?"
He gazed impressively at Miss Sparkes, whose eyes twinkled as she turned with a jerk to Gammon.
"Look here, Greenacre," exclaimed the man of commerce, "let's be business-like. I may trust you, or I may not. What I want to know is, how long are we to wait before he comes to the shop down yonder and behaves like an honest man? Just fix a date, and I'll make a note of it."
"My dear Gammon—"
"Go ahead!"