"Ever since you've entered the house," said he, "you've been putting things straight, and saving us all from ourselves. Look here, now," said Mr. French, resting his elbow on the table and checking off the items with the index finger of his right hand on the fingers of his left. "You've helped to fix the bailiff. That's Number 1."
Mr. Dashwood applauded, and Mr. French continued.
"You put old Kate Moriarty on the scent of these scoundrels. That's Number 2. You put Effie on her legs, and you've freed the house of Dick Giveen. That's Number 3. And you put into my head what to do about Garryowen. That's Number 4."
"And now," said Miss Grimshaw, "I'm going to bed, and to leave you two to your pipes. And that's Number 5. I suppose you will sit up to catch this person?"
"We will," said French.
CHAPTER XIV
Miss Grimshaw's room was situated at the back of the house, overlooking the kitchen garden. Any sound from the stable-yard would reach it, and she determined to lie awake and listen. Moriarty's description of the expected desperado, "over six fut and as black as a flue-brush," seemed to promise developments. Like most women, she had a horror of fighting, and, like most women, fighting had a fascination for her. She had no fear of the result. Mr. French, Mr. Dashwood, Moriarty, and the stable helper, not to mention Andy, formed a combination bad to beat, even against a dozen Black Larrys.
All the same, there was a certain heart-catching excitement about the business not altogether unpleasurable, and never did the silence of the great old house seem more freighted with the voices of the past, never did the ticking of the huge old clock on the landing outside seem more pronounced than just now as, lying in bed with a candle burning on the table by her side and "Tartarin of Tarascon" open in her hand, she listened.