"Yes."
"Giveen is French's cousin."
"Poor Mr. French!"
"And he has a mortal hatred to French. He has been hunting for his address for the last long time, and he has found it. He went down to Crowsnest to-day to make sure. He strayed into a bazaar that was going on there, and I met him. He was acting like a cad, refusing to pay for a cup of tea. Miss Grimshaw, French's governess, pointed him out to me, and told me who he was, and I froze on to him. I said my name was Smith, and I told him I hated French, and he unbosomed himself to me. Well, here's the position now. To-morrow morning he's going down to Lewis, the moneylender, and is going to put Lewis on to French. Now, you see the position I'm in. For Heaven's sake, try to think of what's to be done."
"When is the race?" asked Miss Hitchen.
"On the 15th."
"Well, unless you murder him I don't see that anything is to be done. If the race were to-morrow or next day, you might chloroform him, or lock him up in your rooms, but you can't lock a man up for ten days."
"He ought to be locked up for life," said Bobby. "Idiot! If I could only make the beast tipsy, I might do something with him, but he drinks nothing—only stone gingerbeer."
"Ah!" suddenly said Miss Hitchen, pausing.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Dashwood.