"Yes, I believe he has a child and a young lady is staying with him, a Miss—Grim—something."
"Grimshaw."
"That's it—Grimshaw."
"That's all I want to know," said Mr. Giveen, and there was a satisfied malignity in his tone which, combined with the soft stupidity of his manner and face, made Mr. Dashwood think of reptiles and those jellyfish that blister and sting.
A mad desire to kick Mr. Giveen off the high stool he was perched on was overcome by a tremendous effort. The young man recognised that the whole of French's fortune and future was in his hands, and that it all depended on how he played his game whether this noxious, soft, and venomous enemy was to be frustrated in his plans or not.
Bobby, at the moment, had no plans, but he had this advantage—he knew Giveen's game, and Giveen did not know his.
"The row I had with French," said the artful Bobby, "showed me what the man was. I was up on the Downs one day when he was exercising his beastly horses, and he asked me what I was doing there. What I was doing there! As if the Downs belonged to him! And I told him to go and hang himself, and—as a matter of fact, he threatened to kick me."
"Yes," said Mr. Giveen, "he's great at kicking, is Michael. But he'll kick once too often one of these days."
He rubbed his hands together softly and chuckled to himself.
"He will," said Bobby. "I'd give anything to get even with him and pay him back. I say, what brought you into that bazaar place?"