THE STORY 283 



" Any answer, sir? " 



" No," said Mr French; " there's no answer." 



He stood for a moment with the paper crushed 

 in his hand. He could hear the boy whisthng 

 as he went down hill. Then he passed into the 

 bungalow. 



" Norah! " cried Mr French. 



" Yes, sir," 



" Fetch me the whisky decanter, and ask Miss 

 Grimshaw to come here." 



He went into the sitting-room. " Giveen 

 loose — clean got away." The words danced 

 before him and sang in his ears, turned somersaults 

 and stood on their heads Hke a troop of tormenting 

 gamins. 



In the crises of a complex and fantastic tragedy 

 such as that of French's, the most galling thing 

 is the inabihty to seize the whole situation and 

 meet it philosophically. A bank smash which 

 sweeps away one's fortune is a four-square disaster, 

 sizeable if stunning; but this business of Garry- 

 owen's was ungraspable and unmeasurable, and 

 unfightable as a nightmare. The horse was 

 in apparent safety one moment, and the next 

 in imminent danger. Fortune was quite close now 

 and holding out her hand; now she was at a dis- 

 tance, and her hand, fingers extended, was at her 

 nose. Yesterday the dreaded Giveen was safe 

 in Ireland; to-day he was attending the viUage 

 bazaar. Now Mr Dashwood had him a safe 

 prisoner down in the wilds of Essex, and now he 



