'Do you know _my_ idea?' he blurted out.
'What's that, Mr. Lott?'
'If I were you I wouldn't go to see Bowles. Better for me to do that. We've
only gossip to go upon, and we know what that often amounts to. Leave
Bowles to me, and go and see your son.'
'But I don't even know where he's living.'
'You don't? That's awkward. Well then, come along with me to Bowles's place
of business; as likely as not, if we find him, he'll be able to give you
your son's address. What do you say to my idea, Mr. Daffy?'
The tailor assented to this arrangement, on condition that, if things were
found to be as he had heard, he should be left free to obey his conscience.
The stopping of the train at an intermediate station, where new passengers
entered, put an end to the confidential talk. Mr. Daffy, breathing hard,
struggled with his painful thoughts; the timber-merchant, deeply
meditative, let his eyes wander about the carriage. As they drew near to
the London terminus, Mr. Lott bent forward to his friend.
'I want to buy a present for my eldest nephew,' he remarked, 'but I can't
for the life of me think what it had better be.'
'Perhaps you'll see something in a shop-window,' suggested Mr.
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