"Porthers, miss," replied the foxy person. "Thim things that's gettin' the chickens out of the van calls themselves porthers, I b'lave."
Without another word he stepped into the carriage and whipped the travelling-bag, the bundle of rugs, and other small articles on to the platform.
"You didn't happen to see an ouldish lady in the thrain anywhere between here and Dublin, miss?" said Moriarty—for Moriarty it was—as he deposited the last of the bundles.
"No," said Miss Grimshaw, "I didn't."
"Begorra, then," said Moriarty, "she's either missed the train or tumbled out of it. Billy!"—to a porter who was coming leisurely up—"when you've done thinkin' over that prize you tuk in the beauty show, maybe you'll attind to the company's business and lift the young lady's luggage."
"I expected a trap to meet me from Mr. French, of Drumgool," said Miss Grimshaw as Billy took the luggage.
"Mr. Frinch, did you say, miss?" said Moriarty.
"Yes. Mr. French, of Drumgool House; he expected me by this train."
Moriarty broke into a grin that broadened and spread over his ugly face like the ripple on a pond.