Our store does a large business in artificial manure. It generally comes to us in sacks, but there is no reason why it should not come in packing-cases. It is tremendously heavy stuff.
“Those cases were landed from the Finola,” said Godfrey. “She wouldn’t come here with a cargo of artificial manure.”
“If you’ve brought me all the way up here to accuse Conroy of smuggling,” I said, “you’ve wasted your own time and mine.”
“I don’t accuse Conroy of smuggling,” said Godfrey. “In fact, I’m going to write to him to-night to tell him what’s going on.”
“Very well,” I said. “You can if you like, but don’t mix my name up with it.”
We walked back together as far as the village. Godfrey was silent again. I could see that he still had something on his mind, probably something which he wanted me to do. He kept on clearing his throat and pulling himself together as if he were going to say something of importance. I was uncomfortable, for I felt sure that he intended to attack me again about Marion’s correspondence with Bob Power. I have never, since she was quite a little girl, interfered with Marion’s freedom of action. I had not the smallest intention of making myself ridiculous by claiming any kind of authority over her, especially in a matter so purely personal as the young man she chose to favour. Besides, I like Bob Power. At worst there was nothing against him except his smuggling, and smuggling is much less objectionable than the things that Godfrey does. I should rather, if it came to that, have a son-in-law who went to prison occasionally for importing spirits without consulting the government than one who perpetually nagged at me and worried me. But I did not want to provoke further arguments by explaining my feelings to Godfrey. I was therefore rather relieved when he finally succeeded in blurting out what was in his mind.
“I hope, Excellency,” he said, “that you will take the first chance you get of speaking to Crossan.”
In sudden gratitude for escaping a wrangle about Marion and Bob Power I promised hurriedly that I would speak to Crossan. I was sorry afterwards that I did promise. Still, I very much wished to know what was in the packing-cases. I did not really believe it was artificial manure. I did not believe either that it was smuggled brandy.
My chance came two days later. I met Crossan in the street. He was standing beside his motor car, a handsome-looking vehicle. He evidently intended to go for a drive. I felt at once that I could not ask him a direct question about the packing-cases. I determined to get at them obliquely if I could. I began by admiring the motor.
“She’s good enough, my lord,” said Crossan.