That night, at a consultation held between these three conspirators against misfortune, it was decided that nothing could be done but wait.

There was no use in attempting to remove Garryowen to another training ground; it would be impossible to do so without being traced; besides, there was no other place available. There was nothing for it but to sit still and wait for the thunderbolt to fall, if it were going to fall.

The bazaar was to take place on the 5th, and as day followed day without disaster appearing in the form of a bailiff, Miss Grimshaw began to recognise that the forthcoming function was a blessing in disguise. It was, at least, a visible and tangible bother, and helped to distract the mind from gloomy speculations.

It was to take place in the school building, and on the 4th, much to the delight of the school children, a holiday was proclaimed. Benches and blackboards were turned out of the big schoolroom, the walls stripped of maps and hung with ivy and flags, and stalls erected.

As money-making was the primary object of the function, things were done as cheaply as possible. Colonel Bingham lent his gardener, the Smith-Jacksons lent the weedy-looking boy who rolled their tennis lawn and cleaned their shoes, Miss Slimon lent her housemaid, and the village carpenter, fuming at heart, but constrained to please his customers, lent his services—for nothing.

Miss Grimshaw was to assist Miss Slimon at the needlework stall. Mr. Dashwood had already lent his services, toiling all day valiantly in his shirt-sleeves, nailing up green stuff on the walls, tacking baize covers on the tables, even carrying baskets of crockery-ware and provisions, and to such good effect that when, at ten o'clock at night, they closed the doors and locked them, everything was in place and ready for the next day's orgy.

"Look here," said Mr. Dashwood as they sat at breakfast next morning; "Giveen got that letter on the 1st, didn't he? Well, if he had been up to any mischief he would have communicated with Lewis at once. I bet my life he would have telephoned to him. Well, this is the 5th. Three days have gone, and nothing has happened."

"What's three days?" said French. "There are ten days before the race, and I can't move the horse to Epsom till the 13th, so that gives them eight days to work in."

"Does Giveen know Lewis' address in London?"

"Faith, I don't know, but he can easily get it from Lewis' bailiff, who must have been down at Drumgool, kicking his heels, a week now."

"What sort of moneylender is this Lewis?"

"What sort? Why, there's only one sort of moneylender, and that's a beast. There's nothing to be done with Lewis. If he gets my address here, he'll put in a man to seize Garryowen, and I'll be kiboshed. Sure, it's enough to make one want to tear one's hair. The colt's in the pink of condition. Another week, and he'll be perfect. There's nothing that puts hoof to turf will beat him, and to think of him being barred out of the race by a beast of a moneylender and a bum-bailiff is enough to drive one crazy."

"Look here," said Mr. Dashwood, "why not go to Lewis, explain all, and offer him half-profits if the horse wins and he doesn't interfere with its running?"

"Give him half-profits!" shouted French, nearly upsetting his teacup. "I'd cut his throat first!"

"They wouldn't be much use to him after," said Miss Grimshaw, rising from the table. "What time is it now? Ten? Well, shall we go down to the schoolroom, Mr. Dashwood, and see if there is anything more to be done? Effie can come too; it will keep her out of mischief."

It was a glorious spring morning, the herald of a perfect spring day. The hedges were sprinkled with tiny points of green, and the Crowsnest children, free of school, were gathering wild violets and snowdrops and primroses in the woods for bazaar purposes.

The bazaar had its hand upon the countryside for miles round. The church, calling for new choir-stalls, had sent the little children into the woods to pick flowers for sale; the farmers' wives to their dairies to make butter; the farmers' daughters answered the call with crewel-work and pin-cushions; even the cottagers were not behind with gifts. There was something so pleasant in this response from the fields and the hedgerows, as it were, that it made one almost forget the snobbishness, small-mindedness, and pride of the prime movers in the affair.

For the Fantodds, who lived at Mill House, were snobbish, and would rout out trade in your family-tree, even if the disease were hidden deep and forgotten at its roots; and not only rout it out, but sniff and snort over it. Colonel Bingham—I think I called him General before, but we will reduce him, for punishment, to the rank of Colonel—Colonel Bingham was an Army snob; a well-born, kindly, and handsome old gentleman, but still a snob. The Creeps were puffed up with pride; a drunken baronet who had married a cousin of Colonel Creeps acted in this family just as a grain of soda acts in a mass of dough, leavening the lump. The Smith-Jacksons, the Dorian-Grays (most unfortunate name, assumed in the seventies), the Prosser-Joneses all suffered from this perfectly superfluous disease.

The schoolroom, when they reached it, was having a last finishing touch put to the decorations by Miss Slimon; so, finding nothing to do, they returned to The Martens.

They were in that condition of mind that, going even for a short walk, dread would be ever present in their minds that on returning to the house they would find Garryowen "seized" and a bailiff sitting in the kitchen. This dread, which had something of pleasant excitement about it, this ever-present fear of danger, had drawn French, Mr. Dashwood, and the girl together again in a family party, a corporate body. Love, though he hovered over them, could not divide or disunite them till the adventure they were bound together in was completed.

They were united against a common enemy, so united that, by a process of telepathy, gloom affecting one would affect the rest: hilarity likewise. To-day at luncheon they were hilarious, as an offset to their gloominess at breakfast. A bottle of Pommery assisted their spirits; they drank confusion to Lewis and benightment to Mr. Giveen. They were fey.

The bazaar was to be declared open at half-past two by Mrs. Bingham, and at half-past two a long line of carriages stood in the roadway outside the red-brick school-house; the place inside was hot and stuffy, crammed with the Élite of Crowsnest and smelling of glue, raw pine boards, and coffee. A huge coffee urn, with steam up, at the refreshment stall, spoke of the rustics who would invade the place at three o'clock, when the price of admission was to be lowered to sixpence, and answered with a cynical hissing the announcement of Mrs. Bingham that the bazaar was now open, and the little speech which that excellent lady had been preparing for three days and rehearsing all the morning.

Miss Grimshaw, whose place was at the fancy-work stall, and whose duty it was to assist Miss Slimon in the most nefarious, if undisguised, robbery of customers, found time in the midst of her duties to take in the doings of her neighbours. Bobby Dashwood was much in evidence, buying nothing, but officiating as an unsolicited and highly successful salesman, flirting with mature spinster stallholders, and seeming to enjoy his position immensely.

Miss Grimshaw noted with a touch of regret this flaw in his character, but she had not time to dwell upon it. The six-penny barrier was now down, and the place that had been full before was now all but packed. Farmers and their wives and daughters, cottagers, and humble folk permeated the crowd. Every now and then the throb of a motor-car coming to rest announced some fresh arrival from a distance. Mr. French was not there. He had said that he might look in later in the afternoon, but he had not yet arrived. It was now four o'clock, and the girl, half-dazed by the stuffy air of the place, the buzz of tongues, and the endeavour to make correct changes, was resting for a moment on a ledge of the stall, when a voice brought her to her senses and made her start to her feet.

"No, thank you, I don't want dolls," said the voice. "Sure, what would I be doing with dolls at my age? No, thank you, I don't smoke, and if I did I wouldn't do it in a smoking-cap. No, thanks; I just looked in to see what was going on. I'm strange to the place. I've only left Ireland the day before yesterday, and it's half moidthered I am still with me journey."

As a gazelle by the banks of the Zambesi starts from her couch of leaves at the voice of the leopard, so Miss Grimshaw, at the sound of this voice started from the ledge of the fancy-work stall and looked wildly round her.

In the crowd, beset by two ardent spinsters, one armed with a smoking-cap and the other with a Teddy bear, she saw a bubble-faced gentleman in grey tweeds. Almost with the same sweep of the eye she caught a glimpse of Bobby Dashwood at the bran-pie corner. The wretched Bobby, in his glory was standing on a tub inviting speculators to take a dip. Next moment she had reached him, plucked him by the sleeve and was leading him to the door. She did not speak till they were in the porch, which was deserted.

"Bobby—Mr. Dashwood—he's here!"

"Who?"

"Mr. Giveen."

"Good heavens!" said Mr. Dashwood. "Giveen!"

"Yes. They're trying to sell him dolls. Quick, we haven't a moment to waste. He doesn't know you, does he?"

"No. He never came to Drumgool when I was there."

"Get close to him, get to speak to him. Don't lose sight of him. Pump him. Oh, use your—your intellect now! I don't know what you can do, but try to get hold of his plans."

"Trust me," said Mr. Dashwood. "I'll do my best."

"Well, go at once. I'll follow you back. If you get to talk with him much, pretend you're an enemy of Mr. French's. He's in grey tweeds, with an Irish voice. You can't mistake him."

"Trust me," said Mr. Dashwood.

Next moment, he was in the midst of the sweltering mob, boring his way diligently through it, his eyes and ears on the alert for the sight of the grey tweeds and the sound of the Irish voice.

It was at the refreshment stall that he found his prey.

Mr. Giveen, with a cup of tea in one hand and a bun in the other, was talking to Miss Smith-Jackson, who was replying in icy monosyllables.

"Faith, and the country about here is very different from the country I come from. You don't know where that is, do you? Do you, now? Well, I'll tell ye; it's the country of pretty girls and good whisky. Not that I ever drink it. What are you smilin' at? I give you me oath, a sup of whisky hasn't passed me lips these twenty years."

"One and six, please," replied Miss Smith-Jackson, in still icier monosyllables.

"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Giveen, who had swallowed his bun and was now "saucering" his tea, Anglice drinking it, for coolness, out of the saucer.

"One and six, please."

"And for what, if you please? Do you mane to tell me you're going to charge me one and six for a cup of tea and a bun?"

"Our charge is one and sixpence."

"May I never swallow bite or sup again if this isn't the biggest 'do' I ever came across! And I paying sixpence at the door to get in, and they told me, when I asked them, the refreshments were free. I won't pay it."

"Then please take it as a gift."

"A gift!" cried Mr. Giveen. "When did ever a Giveen take food and drink as a gift? Is it a tramp you're takin' me for? Here's sixpence, and that's tuppence too much, but you can keep the change."

"Colonel Bingham!" said Miss Smith-Jackson, perfectly unmoved.

The Colonel, who had overheard the end of Mr. Giveen's remarks, came to the table.

"Now, sir," said Colonel Bingham, "what's the trouble?"

"Trouble! Here's sixpence—a fair price for what I've had. One and sixpence, she asked me—one and sixpence for a cup of tea and a bun!"

Mr. Giveen, who had never been to a bazaar in his life, and who, justly enough, felt outraged, held out his sixpence, this time to Colonel Bingham.

Colonel Bingham looked from the sixpence to Mr. Giveen, and from Mr. Giveen to the sixpence.

"I think, sir," said Colonel Bingham, "you have mistaken the place where you are. If you will kindly step outside with me, I will point you out the way to the village inn, and your admission fee will be returned to you at the door."

It was at this moment that Mr. Dashwood struck in. The crowd immediately in their vicinity had stepped back slightly, making a small arena, as people do around a street accident or a dog-fight. In the middle of this arena stood the outraged Mr. Giveen, facing the Colonel. A moment more, and who knows what might have happened only for the intervention of Bobby?

"Excuse me," said Bobby, addressing the Colonel, "but this gentleman is Irish and unacquainted with our customs. The whole of this, I believe, is a mistake, and if he will step outside with me, I will explain everything to him. I am sure that, as an Irish gentleman, he will agree with me that little affairs about money are better settled in private."

"Now, that's common sense," said the gentleman from Ireland. "I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir, but I place me honour in your hands."

"Come on, then," said Mr. Dashwood, and, taking the other by the arm, he led the way through the crowd towards the door.

"Now we're all right," said he, when they found themselves in the open air. "I say, you're well out of it, and I wouldn't go back if I were you. Do you mean to tell me they wanted to rook you of one and six for a cup of tea and a bun?"

"They did that," replied the other, with a chuckle. "They thought they'd caught an omadhaun asleep; but, faith, they thought wrong!"

"You were too sharp for them," said Mr. Dashwood. "I saw you come in. I'm down here for the day, and I just dropped into the place; then I heard you talking to the girl behind the stall, and chaffing her, and telling her you were Irish; then I heard the row and came to your assistance. I like Irish people. Are you staying here?"

"No," said Mr. Giveen. "I just came down for the day. Do you live here?"

"No," said Mr. Dashwood. "I just came down for the day. I live in London. But I'm jolly glad to have met you; it's a relief to come across a genuine Irishman with some wit in him. I say, I'm jolly glad you put that girl in her place. She's a cheeky beast. Come along into the inn and have a drink."

They had been walking towards the inn, and Mr. Dashwood, taking his companion's arm, guided him, nothing loth, through the entrance and into the bar-parlour.

"Now we're all right," said Bobby, taking his seat and rapping on the counter with a half-sovereign. "Cock yourself up on that stool. What'll you have?"

"Thanks, I'll have a stone gingerbeer and a biscuit, if it's all the same to you."

"A whisky and soda, a stone gingerbeer, and some biscuits, please, Mrs. Stonnor." Then, while the landlady was serving them, "You are staying in London, I think you told me?"

"Yes," said Mr. Giveen. "I'm on a little holiday, and I just ran down here to-day to see the country. Do you know the country round about here?"

"Rather!"

"And the people?"

"Most of them."

"Now, look here," said Mr. Giveen. "Do you happen to know any one of the name of French that's staying in the neighbourhood?"

"Michael French, do you mean?"

"That's him."

"Oh, good heavens! I should think I did. An awful chap. I had a row with him."

"Did you, now? So you had a row with him? Faith, he's always rowing with people, and it's my belief he'll do it once too often."

"Do you know him?" said Bobby, who in his few minutes' knowledge of Mr. Giveen had taken a hearty and whole-souled dislike to him that amounted almost to a hatred.

"Know him!" said Mr. Giveen. "None better. I just came down to ask after him, but since I've met you, you can tell me all I want to know."

"Delighted, I'm sure."

"He's got some horses down here?"

"Yes, so I believe."

"And he's got his little daughter and the governess with him?"

"Yes, I believe he has a child and a young lady is staying with him, a Miss—Grim—something."

"Grimshaw."

"That's it—Grimshaw."

"That's all I want to know," said Mr. Giveen, and there was a satisfied malignity in his tone which, combined with the soft stupidity of his manner and face, made Mr. Dashwood think of reptiles and those jellyfish that blister and sting.

A mad desire to kick Mr. Giveen off the high stool he was perched on was overcome by a tremendous effort. The young man recognised that the whole of French's fortune and future was in his hands, and that it all depended on how he played his game whether this noxious, soft, and venomous enemy was to be frustrated in his plans or not.

Bobby, at the moment, had no plans, but he had this advantage—he knew Giveen's game, and Giveen did not know his.

"The row I had with French," said the artful Bobby, "showed me what the man was. I was up on the Downs one day when he was exercising his beastly horses, and he asked me what I was doing there. What I was doing there! As if the Downs belonged to him! And I told him to go and hang himself, and—as a matter of fact, he threatened to kick me."

"Yes," said Mr. Giveen, "he's great at kicking, is Michael. But he'll kick once too often one of these days."

He rubbed his hands together softly and chuckled to himself.

"He will," said Bobby. "I'd give anything to get even with him and pay him back. I say, what brought you into that bazaar place?"

"What brought me in?" said Giveen. "Why, what else but a girl?"

"A girl?"

"Faith, the prettiest girl I ever saw. I was coming along the street here, looking for someone to ask them where French lived, when a motor-car stopped at that red-brick place, and out of a motor-car steps a girl with a face like a tea-rose. The instant her eye lit on me she smiles. Now, when a girl smiles at a fellow like that, what does it mean?"

"That she's fallen in love with you, of course," replied Mr. Dashwood, looking at the face and figure of his companion as one looks at a Toby jug on a Hogarth print, allured yet repelled by its grotesqueness.

"Well," went on Mr. Giveen, "what does a fellow do when a girl looks at him like that but follow her? So in I went, and a chap at the door stops me. 'Sixpence,' says he. 'What for?' says I. 'To go into the bazaar,' says he. 'What are they doin' there?' says I. 'Selling things,' says he. 'I want a cup of tea,' says I, 'but I'm not goin' to pay sixpence to go in and get it.' 'Oh,' he says, 'they give refreshment away for nothing to such as you.' So in I went."

"Just so," cut in Mr. Dashwood. "See here, when are you going back to town?"

"By the half-past five train."

"Are you in a hurry to get back?"

"Faith, and I am. I've done my business here, and I've more business to do in town."

"Look here," said Bobby. "I've been thinking you're just the man who might help me. I want to play this fellow French a trick."

"Sure," said the other, "our minds are jumpin'. A trick? Why, that's the game I'm after myself."

"I was thinking," said Bobby, "of rotting him by sending him a telegram from town to tell him to come up at once, as some relation was ill. The only thing is I don't know if he has any relations in town."

"That's no use," said Giveen. "You leave me to play him a trick. See here."

"Yes?"

"The chap's rotten with debt."

"Debt! Why, I thought he was a rich man."

"Rich! He's as poor as Brian O'Lynn. And, look here—he's down here in hiding!"

"Hiding?"

"Aye, hiding from the bailiffs."

"Good heavens!" cried Bobby. "Why, everyone here thinks he's a great swell."

"He's run away from Ireland, him and his horses, and done it so cleverly that no one knows where he's gone to; but I've found out. It's the truth I'm telling you. Well, now, see here. He owes a chap in London no end of money; the chap's name is Lewis, and Lewis sent a man to French's house over in Ireland to take possession. Hammering away at the house door, the man was, and it empty. Well, I got an inkling from a letter that Michael French himself and his daughter and his governess and his horses were down here, and here I've come to find out; and here he is, and it's to-morrow morning I'm going to see Lewis, and it's to-morrow night the bailiffs will be in at French's."

"Gloats!" cried Bobby. "Oh, this is too much of a good thing all at once. Why, it will crack French up and ruin him! All the people here will cut him. He'll be done for, utterly done for!"

"He'll get such a twisting he'll never get over it," said Giveen. "It'll mean pretty nigh the workhouse for him and his brat. Cocking her up with a governess! And, see here——"

"Yes?"

"That governess is all me eye!"

Mr. Giveen accompanied this cryptic remark with a wink that spoke volumes of libel and slander, and Mr. Dashwood rose from his seat and executed a double-shuffle on the bar-room floor.

"What are you doing?" asked Giveen.

"Doing? I feel as if I were going to burst! To think of getting even with that man! See here, you must come up to town and dine with me."

"Sure, with the greatest pleasure. But I haven't the honour of knowing your name yet. Me name's Giveen."

"And mine's Smith. Where are you staying in town?"

"I'm staying at Swan's Temperance Hotel, in the Strand."

Mr. Dashwood looked at his watch.

"It wants ten minutes to five. We may as well get to the station. Have another drink?"

"Well, I don't mind if I do," said Mr. Giveen, who worked on a fixed principle of never refusing anything he could get for nothing.

Bobby Dashwood called for more gingerbeer, which his companion consumed. Then they started for the station.

The only plan Mr. Dashwood had in his mind for the moment was to cling to his companion. If the worst came to the worst, he would, at least, have the satisfaction of kicking the traitor into the street out of Lewis' office, where he determined to accompany him. But he felt dimly there was a chance between this and to-morrow morning of doing something to save French.

If Giveen had only been a drinker, the path would have been clearer. The man who gets jolly has always soft spots one can work on. But Mr. Giveen had no soft spots. He was soft all over, with hard spots in him here and there, and the hardest of all these spots was his hatred of French.