He found Mrs. Clover in the shop. She reddened at sight of him, and after a hurried greeting asked him to step into the parlour, where she carefully closed the door.
"Mr. Gammon, have you heard anything about my husband?"
The question disconcerted him; he tried ineffectually to shape a denial.
"You have, I can see you have! It doesn't matter. I don't want you to tell me anything. But he's now in this house."
She was greatly agitated, not angry, but beset by perplexities and distress.
"He came last night about ten o'clock—came to the door wrapped up like a stranger—it was almost too much for me when I heard his voice. He wanted to come in—to stay; and of course I let him. Minnie had to know, poor girl. He's in the spare room. Did you know he meant to come?"
"I? Hadn't an idea of it, Mrs. Clover!"
"But you know something about him. He tells me you do. He wants to see you. There's only one thing I ask—has he been doing wrong? Oh, do tell me that!"
Gammon protested that he knew nothing of the kind, and added that he had only seen the man once, for a minute, now more than a month ago.
"And you kept it from me!" said his friend reproachfully. "I didn't think you'd have done that, Mr. Gammon!"