Daffy.
'Maybe I shall.'
They alighted at Liverpool Street. Mr. Lott hailed a hansom, and they were
driven to a street in Southwark, where, at the entrance of a building
divided into offices, one perceived the name of Bowles and Perkins. This
firm was on the fifth floor, and Mr. Daffy eyed the staircase with
misgiving.
'No need for you to go up,' said his companion. 'Wait here, and I'll see if
I can get the address.'
Mr. Lott was absent for only a few minutes. He came down again with his
lips hard set, knocking each step sharply with his walking-stick.
'I've got it,' he said, and named a southern suburb.
'Have you seen Mr. Bowles?'
'No; he's out of town,' was the reply. 'Saw his partner.'
They walked side by side for a short way, then Mr. Lott stopped.
'Do you know _my_ idea? It's a little after eleven. I'm going to see my
daughter, and I dare say I shall catch the 3.49 home from Liverpool Street.
Suppose we take our chance of meeting there?'
Thus it was agreed. Mr. Daffy turned in the direction of his son's abode;
the timber-merchant went northward, and presently reached Finsbury Park,
where in a house of unpretentious but decent appearance, dwelt Mr. Bowles.
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