They had been walking towards the inn, and Mr. Dashwood, taking his companion's arm, guided him, nothing loth, through the entrance and into the bar-parlour.
"Now we're all right," said Bobby, taking his seat and rapping on the counter with a half-sovereign. "Cock yourself up on that stool. What'll you have?"
"Thanks, I'll have a stone gingerbeer and a biscuit, if it's all the same to you."
"A whisky and soda, a stone gingerbeer, and some biscuits, please, Mrs. Stonnor." Then, while the landlady was serving them, "You are staying in London, I think you told me?"
"Yes," said Mr. Giveen. "I'm on a little holiday, and I just ran down here to-day to see the country. Do you know the country round about here?"
"Rather!"
"And the people?"
"Most of them."
"Now, look here," said Mr. Giveen. "Do you happen to know any one of the name of French that's staying in the neighbourhood?"
"Michael French, do you mean?"