“Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher.
It was his turn to say guineas now, and he repeated the word without faltering until the price rose to fifty pounds. Mr. Robinson took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Never in all his experience of auctions had he heard bidding like this. He lit a fresh cigarette, holding the match in fingers which trembled visibly.
“You will understand, gentlemen, that I am only selling the hay, not the barn or the stable.”
“Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher.
It was the last bid. As he made it Colonel Eden turned and walked out of the group round the auctioneer. James McNiece took his pipe from his pocket and filled it slowly.
“The hay is yours, Mr. Gallaher,” said the auctioneer.
Dan Gallaher, having secured the hay, left the yard. He found his horse, which he had tethered to a tree, and mounted. He rode slowly down the rough lane which led from the farm. At the gate leading to the high road the police sergeant stopped him.
“If you wouldn’t mind waiting a minute, Mr. Gallaher,” said the sergeant, “the D.I. would like to speak to you.”
“What about?” said Gallaher.
The sergeant winked ponderously.