"Well, sure, it's all one and the same thing. French has skedaddled. He's taken his horses away, and you don't know his address. Come, now, isn't that the truth?"
"Yes, it is. By any chance, do you know his address?"
"I do."
"Then," said Mr. Lewis, "I must ask you for it."
"Oh, must you, faith? And how are you to make me tell you? See here, now—a bargain is a bargain, and I'll sell you it for a fiver."
Half an hour later he left the office of Mr. Lewis with the promise of a five-pound note should his information prove correct and the satisfaction of having revenged himself on his kinsman.
He turned into O'Shee's in the Strand. Though he only drank gingerbeer and soda-water he frequented O'Shee's, finding there compatriots whom he could bore with his conversation.
He had arranged to return to Ireland on the 16th, and on the 14th, the night before the City and Suburban, wandering into O'Shee's, he fell into conversation with an affable gentleman adorned with rings, whose name, given in the first few moments of conversation, was Paddy Welsh.
"So you're off to the Ould Counthry on Thursday," said Mr. Walsh. "And what are you doin' to-morrow?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Giveen.