"Well, it was Lincoln's Inn Fields, the next night. And there he was, sure enough, with his face half hid as if he was ashamed of himself, as well he might be. And he begins with saying as he was very ill and he didn't think he'd live long. But I wasn't to think as he forgot me, and when he died I should find myself provided for. And I wasn't to say a word to nobody or he'd take my name out of his will at once."
Gammon laughed.
"It's all right, Polly. Don't be afraid. All between me and you. But I'll bet he didn't tell you where he was living?"
She shook her head.
"Of course not, I knew that," said Gammon, with a mysterious air. "Well, go on. He met you again, didn't he?"
"Once more, only once."
"Yes, and gave you little presents and told you to be a good gyurl and never disgrace your uncle. Oh, I know him! But he took precious good care not to let you know where he lived."
"But you know?" she exclaimed.
"No fear, Polly. You shall, too, if you have patience, though I don't say it'll be just yet."
A few more questions, and the girl had told everything—Mr. Clover's failure to keep the third appointment and her fruitless watchings since then.