When Miss Grimshaw saw Bobby leading Mr. Giveen to the bazaar entrance she returned to her duties with so distracted a mind that she sold a seven-and-six-penny teacloth to Mrs. Passover, the sanitary inspector's wife, for two and sixpence, and was only conscious of the fact when she was reminded of it by Miss Slimon, the presiding genius of the stall.

On the pretext of a headache, she released herself at five o'clock and made directly for The Martens, where she found Mr. French smoking a cigar and reading a novel, and utterly oblivious of the fact that he had promised to attend the bazaar.

"What's up?" said French, putting his book and reading glasses down and staring at the girl, whose face and manner were eloquent of news.

"He's come."

"Who?"

"Mr. Giveen."

The owner of Garryowen sprang to his feet.

"He's come, has he? Where is he? He's come, has he?"

"Stop!" she said, half frightened with the ferocity of the outraged French. "It mayn't be so bad as you think. Mr. Dashwood is with him, and is going to do what he can. There's no use in violence. Sit down and listen to me, and I'll tell you all about it."

French sat down in the chair from which he had just arisen. The animal fury which the idea of Giveen excited in his mind might have given cause to grave results had the image come within striking distance; and little blame to him, for here was Garryowen trained to a turn. Weeks and months of care and the genius of Moriarty had brought the colt to that point of perfection which leaves nothing to be desired but the racing day. Only a few days separated them from the supreme moment when, if Fate were propitious, the black-and-yellow colours of Drumgool would be carried first past the winning-post. The possibility of winning a small fortune was almost becoming a certainty, and now, to thwart him of his desire and cripple him for life, here came Dick Giveen.

"But what took him into the bazaar?" asked he, when the girl had finished her story.

"Providence, I believe," replied Miss Grimshaw. "Just fancy, if he hadn't come in! He has come down here evidently to make sure that you are here. If he hadn't wandered into the bazaar, he might have found out what he wanted and gone back to London without our knowing, and then the next thing would have been a man in possession."

French rose up and paced the floor several times without speaking, then he broke out:

"I don't see what Dashwood is to do with him. Unless he murders him, he'll never stop him from going to Lewis and blowing the gaff. What's the good of following him? Might as well leave him alone. Better to have it over at once and done with. Well, let them do their worst, but they'll never get the horse, for as sure as Lewis takes possession I'll shoot him."

"Shoot Mr. Lewis?"

"No, the horse."

He strode out of the room, and by the back entrance to the bungalow found the stableyard.

Moriarty was in the yard, completing a trap of his own invention, a thing simple as sin, fatal as death, and artful as the mind of its maker. Miss Grimshaw had spoken strongly to Mrs. Driscoll about the poaching. Catching rabbits and such things might be excusable, said Miss Grimshaw, but poaching sheep and eggs was indefensible. It was robbery, in fact, and should it come to her ears again she would inform Mr. French. Stoutly denying all knowledge of the fact, Mrs. Driscoll, all the same, listened to the words of the governess and conveyed them to Moriarty.

"Sheep?" said Moriarty, with a wink at his informer. "What sheep does she mane?"

"Faith, I dunno, but she says she saw you and Andy draggin' a sheep into the loose-box be the wan The Cat's in."

"Oh, that ould bell-wether? Sure, it was to keep him from the cowld we put him there. And was it our fault if he committed suicide and killed himself and skinned himself and then hung himself up in quarthers?"

All the same, from that day he paid no more attention to the comfort of the sheep of the neighbourhood, confining himself to smaller game.

"Moriarty," said Mr. French, "Mr. Giveen has found out where we are. He's been down here to-day and it's all up with us."

"Faith, sorr," said Moriarty, "and I'm not surprised. The only wonder to me is he didn't find us out before."

"Well, he's found us out now, anyhow, and be hanged to him! There's only one thing. Mr. Dashwood has got hold of him, and is sticking to him. Not that I expect he'll do much good."

Moriarty, who had put his trap down on the window-ledge of the kitchen, pursed his lips and stood with one hand caressing his foxy chin.

"And where has Mr. Dashwood got him, sorr?" asked he after a moment's silence.

"I don't know."

"Be any chance, sorr, d'you think he's left the place yet. For if he hasn't, and we could speak him fair, and get him up here——"

"Yes?"

"Well, sorr, there's a loose-box beside the wan The Cat's in."

"You mean we might lock him up there?"

"Yes, sorr."

"He'd never come, and if he did, he'd shout the place down."

"Faith, he'd be silent enough, sorr, wid a rope gag in him."

"We couldn't keep him ten days, and he'd have a tearing action against us—not that I'd care about that. See here, Moriarty."

"Yes, sorr."

"Down with you to the village and station, and if by any chance you see him with Mr. Dashwood—well, b'gad, I'll do it. Get him up here; tell him I want to see him. We may as well try."

"Yes, sorr."

Moriarty went into the stables and slipped on his jacket. An hour later he returned from the village with the news that Mr. Dashwood and the strange gentleman had departed for London by the five o'clock train.

Early next morning, with the letters, arrived the telegram that Mr. Dashwood had despatched the night before.

"Giveen safe."

Mr. French, having read it, put on his dressing-gown, and, crossing over to the door of Miss Grimshaw's room, knocked and pushed the envelope under the door.

"Read that," shouted Mr. French.

"Good!" came the girl's voice when she had read it. "I knew he'd do something. Oh, what a relief!"

At breakfast, with the open telegram on the table, they discussed it.

"It was handed in at Regent Street last night at eight o'clock," said Miss Grimshaw. "What, I wonder, can he have done to him, or how can he have got round him?"

"I don't know what he's done to him," said her companion, "but I know one thing, he'll never get round him, and if he thinks he's talked him over he'll find he's made a mistake."

"Well," said the girl, "whatever has happened has happened. We have done our best, and if we are beaten, it won't be our faults. And there is some satisfaction in that."

The day passed, bringing no news from Mr. Dashwood. The next day also passed without news; but by the early post of the third day arrived a letter.

The envelope was shabby and dirty, and the address was written in pencil. Mr. French tore the thing open, and read:

"Dear French,—I've bottled him. I'm scribbling this with pencil as I have got no ink, and I don't know how I will post it. Anyhow, I'm writing it on the chance of finding some means of doing so. I got Giveen up to my rooms in town, and when I had him there I didn't in the least know what to do with him. The beast hates you. I got it all out of him by pretending you were an enemy of mine.

"He told me straight out that he was going to set Lewis on you, and, upon my soul, there were moments on the journey up to town when I could have flung him out of the railway carriage. Anyhow, when I got him to my rooms, a brilliant idea occurred to a friend of mine whom I consulted. I hired a motor-car, bought some provisions, got Giveen into the car, and motored him down here to a cottage which belongs to an uncle of mine, and which he used for duck-shooting.

"It's the most God-forsaken place in the world, on the Essex coast; not a soul within miles, only sea-gulls. Of course, Giveen bucked coming down, but only mildly. A happy thought occurred to me, and I pretended to be slightly balmy. I told him I was the King of Siam—that quieted him. He's dead certain he's in the grip of a lunatic, and asks no questions. I make him do the cooking, such as it is, and the washing up.

"I never let him out of my sight for a moment, and I sleep at night with my bed drawn across the door. The whole thing is like what you'd read of in a book; but it's too awful for words. He can talk about nothing, and we are living on tinned meat and biscuits, and now my tobacco is giving out. I'd ask you to send me some, only I daren't, for if the postman came here, Giveen would be sure to make a bid for freedom.

"Be sure I will stick to him, like grim death, and give my kind regards to all at The Martens."

French read this important despatch to Miss Grimshaw as they sat at breakfast, and the girl listened with sparkling eyes.

"I always hated motor-cars," said she, when he had finished. "But I'll never hear a word against them again. Wasn't it clever of him? And the cleverest thing in the whole business is the King of Siam part, for if there's any bother afterwards, he can put the whole affair down to a practical joke. There are only five days now to the 13th. You are moving the horse to Major Lawson's stables at Epsom on the 13th, aren't you?"

"I am," said French. "I had a letter from him only yesterday, asking after the colt. By George, but I believe we'll pull the thing through, after all!"

He rose from the table in high excitement, went to the window, and stood, jingling the keys in his pocket and gazing at the view. It seemed to him that at last fortune was beginning to make a way for him. A few days only separated him from his goal. If Bobby Dashwood could only keep Giveen "bottled" till the 13th, or even the 12th, all would be well. Could he do this? Time alone could answer that question.