"Don't speak to me. This is simply frabjous! Why, my dear chap, I've got just what you want."
"What's that?"
"A place where you can train half a dozen horses if you want to."
"Where?"
"Where? Why, down at Crowsnest, in Sussex. It's not my place; it belongs, 's'matter of fact, to Emmanuel Ibbetson. He's chucked horses, and he's going to pull the place down and rebuild when he comes back from Africa. I can get a loan of it for three or four months."
"What would the rent be?" asked Mr. French.
"Nothing. He'll lend me it. He's just now constructing a big-game expedition, and they start in a few days. I saw him only the day before yesterday at White's. Lucky, ain't it, that I thought of it? I'll wire to him now asking for the permit. The place is furnished all right; there's a caretaker in it. It's a bungalow with no end of fine stables. The Martens is the name of it."
"Begad," said Mr. French, "this is like Providence!"
"Isn't it? You hold on here, and I'll send the wire. I'll send it to his chambers in the Albany, and we'll have the reply back to-night or to-morrow morning."
When the wire was despatched, Mr. French proposed an adjournment to the Kildare-street Club, whither, accordingly, the two gentlemen took their way.