"Bobby—Mr. Dashwood—he's here!"
"Who?"
"Mr. Giveen."
"Good heavens!" said Mr. Dashwood. "Giveen!"
"Yes. They're trying to sell him dolls. Quick, we haven't a moment to waste. He doesn't know you, does he?"
"No. He never came to Drumgool when I was there."
"Get close to him, get to speak to him. Don't lose sight of him. Pump him. Oh, use your—your intellect now! I don't know what you can do, but try to get hold of his plans."
"Trust me," said Mr. Dashwood. "I'll do my best."
"Well, go at once. I'll follow you back. If you get to talk with him much, pretend you're an enemy of Mr. French's. He's in grey tweeds, with an Irish voice. You can't mistake him."
"Trust me," said Mr. Dashwood.