"That's not a bad idea," said he. "By George! it's good, if we could do it. Only, could we keep it hid?"
"Does Mr. Lewis know you are running him for the race?"
"No. He doesn't know I've got him, and the debt's not due till a fortnight before the event. And, by Jove! if he does see my name in the racing lists, he'll put it down as my cousin, Michael French's—the one Mr. Dashwood met—for Michael runs horses in England every day in the week, and his name's as well known as the Monument. Faith! and it's a bright idea, for I'd get rid of all this crew here at one sweep."
Mr. French went to the door, opened it, and called:
"Norah!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Bring the whisky!"
"But," continued Mr. French, "the only question is where could I take the horse? Faith! and I have it. Todd Mead—he's a man you've never heard of—has an old shanty down in Sligo. He uses it for breeding polo ponies, and there's a hundred square mile of heath that you could train a dromedary on and not a soul to see. He lives in Dublin, and keeps a manager there, and he'd give me stabling there, maybe, for nothing, for he has more room than he wants. It's a big streeling barn of a place."
"You say the debt to Mr. Lewis only comes due a few weeks before the race?" asked Miss Grimshaw.