THE BAZAAR 239 



" No; he never came to Drumgool when I was 

 there." 



" Get close to him, get to speak to him; don't 

 lose sight of him. Pump him. Oh, use yom* — 

 yom' intellect now! I don't know what you can 

 do, but try to get hold of his plans." 



" Trust me," said Mr Dashwood. " I'll do my 

 best." 



" Well, go at once. I'll follow you back. If 

 you get to talk with him much, pretend you're 

 an enemy of Mr French's. He's in grey tweeds, 

 with an Irish voice. You can't mistake him." 



" Trust me," said Mr Dashwood. 



Next moment he was in the midst of the swelter- 

 ing mob, boring his way dihgently through it, 

 his eyes and ears on the alert for the sight of the 

 grey tweeds and the sound of the Irish voice. 



It was at the refreshment stall that he found his 

 prey. 



Mr Giveen, with a cup of tea in one hand and a 

 bim in the other, was talking to Miss Smith-Jack- 

 son, who was replying in icy monosyllables. 



" Faith, and the country about here is very 

 different from the country I come from. You 

 don't know where that is, do you? Do you now? 

 Well, I'll tell ye, it's the country of pretty girls 

 and good whisky. Not that I ever drink it — ^what 

 are you smihn' at? I give you me oath a sup of 

 whisky hasn't passed me hps these twenty years." 



" One-and-six, please," replied Miss Smith- 

 Jackson, in still icier monosyllables. 



