"Doing? I feel as if I were going to burst! To think of getting even with that man! See here, you must come up to town and dine with me."
"Sure, with the greatest pleasure. But I haven't the honour of knowing your name yet. Me name's Giveen."
"And mine's Smith. Where are you staying in town?"
"I'm staying at Swan's Temperance Hotel, in the Strand."
Mr. Dashwood looked at his watch.
"It wants ten minutes to five. We may as well get to the station. Have another drink?"
"Well, I don't mind if I do," said Mr. Giveen, who worked on a fixed principle of never refusing anything he could get for nothing.
Bobby Dashwood called for more gingerbeer, which his companion consumed. Then they started for the station.
The only plan Mr. Dashwood had in his mind for the moment was to cling to his companion. If the worst came to the worst, he would, at least, have the satisfaction of kicking the traitor into the street out of Lewis' office, where he determined to accompany him. But he felt dimly there was a chance between this and to-morrow morning of doing something to save French.
If Giveen had only been a drinker, the path would have been clearer. The man who gets jolly has always soft spots one can work on. But Mr. Giveen had no soft spots. He was soft all over, with hard spots in him here and there, and the hardest of all these spots was his hatred of French.