She has a flair for
the romantic, for the thing that's out of reach--the bird on the highest
branch, the bird in the sky beyond ours, the song that was lost before
time was, the light that never was on sea or land. Why, damn it, damn it
all, my Solon, here's the beginning of a case in Court unless we can lay
the fellow by the heels! How long is he here for?"
When M. Fille had told him that he would stay for another month for
certain, and no doubt much longer, if there seemed a prospect of winning
the heiress of the Manor Cartier, the Judge gave a groan.
"We must get him away, somehow," he said. "Where does he stay?"
"At the house of Louis Charron," was the reply. "Louis Charron--isn't
he the fellow that sells whisky without a license?"
"It is so, monsieur."
The Judge moved his head from side to side like a bear in a cage. "It is
that, is it, my Fille? By the thumb of the devil, isn't it time then
that Louis Charron was arrested for breaking the law? Also how do we
know but that the interloping fellow Fynes is an agent for a whisky firm
perhaps? Couldn't he, then, on suspicion, be arrested with--"
The Clerk of the Court shook his head mournfully.
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