French rose up and paced the floor several times without speaking, then he broke out:
"I don't see what Dashwood is to do with him. Unless he murders him, he'll never stop him from going to Lewis and blowing the gaff. What's the good of following him? Might as well leave him alone. Better to have it over at once and done with. Well, let them do their worst, but they'll never get the horse, for as sure as Lewis takes possession I'll shoot him."
"Shoot Mr. Lewis?"
"No, the horse."
He strode out of the room, and by the back entrance to the bungalow found the stableyard.
Moriarty was in the yard, completing a trap of his own invention, a thing simple as sin, fatal as death, and artful as the mind of its maker. Miss Grimshaw had spoken strongly to Mrs. Driscoll about the poaching. Catching rabbits and such things might be excusable, said Miss Grimshaw, but poaching sheep and eggs was indefensible. It was robbery, in fact, and should it come to her ears again she would inform Mr. French. Stoutly denying all knowledge of the fact, Mrs. Driscoll, all the same, listened to the words of the governess and conveyed them to Moriarty.
"Sheep?" said Moriarty, with a wink at his informer. "What sheep does she mane?"
"Faith, I dunno, but she says she saw you and Andy draggin' a sheep into the loose-box be the wan The Cat's in."
"Oh, that ould bell-wether? Sure, it was to keep him from the cowld we put him there. And was it our fault if he committed suicide and killed himself and skinned himself and then hung himself up in quarthers?"
All the same, from that day he paid no more attention to the comfort of the sheep of the neighbourhood, confining himself to smaller game.