Mr. Dashwood said nothing for a few minutes. There was a mystery about Miss Grimshaw that he could not unravel, and which she could not explain.
Then he said: "We've both been travelling round the country, seems to me, and we're both pretty tired and we've met like this. Funny, isn't it?"
"Awfully," said Miss Grimshaw, trying to stifle a yawn.
"Do I bore you talking?"
"Not a bit."
"That's all right. I know you must be tired, but then, you see, you can't go to sleep on an outside car, so one may as well talk. How far are we from Cloyne now?"—to Moriarty.
"Nine miles, sorr."
"Good! I say, you said this car belonged to a Mr. French. I met a Mr. French six months ago in London—a Mr. Michael French."
"That's him, sorr."
"Well, that's funny," said Mr. Dashwood. "I met him at my club, and he told me he lived somewhere in Ireland—a big man, very big man—goes in for horses."