"And what's that?" asked French, who, since the affair of Effie, had conceived a deep respect for Miss Grimshaw's cleverness and perspicuity.
"Well, it's this way," said she. "That man Lewis is your stumbling-block."
"Call him my halter," said the owner of Garryowen, "for if ever a man had a blind horse in a halter, it's me and him."
"No, I will not call him any such thing. He's only a moneylender. You owe him the money. Garryowen will belong to him after the third of April. Well, let him have Garryowen."
"Faith, there's no letting about it."
"Let him have Garryowen, I say, but not until after the race."
"Why—what do you mean?"
"I mean this. Would it not be possible to take Garryowen away from here secretly? He does not belong to Mr. Lewis yet. Take him away to some lonely place, train him there, and run him for the race. If he wins, you will make money, won't you? And if he loses, why, he will belong to Mr. Lewis."
French rose up and paced the floor.