"Take that horse out and give him a good feed," said Reg to the groom in charge as they alighted. "Now come along, Terence."
But Terence was too amazed to stir. All his Irish wit had left him, and he did not feel certain his fare were not softies. He stood with his hat in one hand and, scratching his head with the other, gazed blankly at his horse being led away to the stable.
"Come on, Terence," called Hal again; but Terence did not appear inclined to stir.
"I'll fix him, Hal," said Reg, going to the groom and paying for an hour's feed in advance. This had the desired effect, and Terence followed them without a word, but his perplexed thoughts ran thus:
"Now be jabers, by ould Oireland, here's a couple of queer coves. What the divil are they up to at all, at all? Maybe it's information they'll be wanting about Dick. Terence O'Flynn mind what you're up to—that's what Biddy, the darlint, would say if she were here, and by jabers I'll take her advice."
Hal and Reg in the meantime walked to the Palace, and calling Terence in, took the lift to the fifth floor, and went to their room.
"Sit down, Terence," said Reg, pushing a chair forward.
"You mean straight, gentlemen, I hope, 'cos I have a big family, and sure they'll all be kilt intirely should anything happen to me."
"Terence O'Flynn, we—"
"Begging your honours' pardon, the accent's on the—"