"He's come."
"Who?"
"Mr. Giveen."
The owner of Garryowen sprang to his feet.
"He's come, has he? Where is he? He's come, has he?"
"Stop!" she said, half frightened with the ferocity of the outraged French. "It mayn't be so bad as you think. Mr. Dashwood is with him, and is going to do what he can. There's no use in violence. Sit down and listen to me, and I'll tell you all about it."
French sat down in the chair from which he had just arisen. The animal fury which the idea of Giveen excited in his mind might have given cause to grave results had the image come within striking distance; and little blame to him, for here was Garryowen trained to a turn. Weeks and months of care and the genius of Moriarty had brought the colt to that point of perfection which leaves nothing to be desired but the racing day. Only a few days separated them from the supreme moment when, if Fate were propitious, the black-and-yellow colours of Drumgool would be carried first past the winning-post. The possibility of winning a small fortune was almost becoming a certainty, and now, to thwart him of his desire and cripple him for life, here came Dick Giveen.
"But what took him into the bazaar?" asked he, when the girl had finished her story.
"Providence, I believe," replied Miss Grimshaw. "Just fancy, if he hadn't come in! He has come down here evidently to make sure that you are here. If he hadn't wandered into the bazaar, he might have found out what he wanted and gone back to London without our knowing, and then the next thing would have been a man in possession."