When they arrived at the farm Richard deposited his hostess at the front-door, and ran the car round to the outbuildings, calling for Micky. But Micky was not about He saw the stable-door open, and, dismounting, he entered the stable. There was no sign of Micky. He went into the harness-room and perceived Micky’s coat still hanging on its peg. He also perceived something yellow sticking out of the inside pocket of the coat He made bold to examine the pocket, and found a French book--the Memoirs of Goron, late chief of the Paris police. ‘Rather a strange sort of Irish tramp,’ Richard thought, ‘to be reading a French book, and such a book!’ With the aid of the admirable collection of tools in Mr. Raphael Craig’s workshop, Richard, who was decidedly a gifted amateur in the art of engineering, set to work on the damaged motor-cars, and an hour before lunch-time both the Panhard and the Décauville voiturette were fully restored to the use of their natural functions. He might easily have elongated his task, after the manner of some British workmen, so as to make it last over the week-end; but he had other plans, and, besides, he was not quite sure whether he wished to continue the quest which he had undertaken on behalf of Mr. Simon Lock. At twelve o’clock he made his way to the house, and found Micky weeding the drive. The two mares were capering in the orchard meadow which separated the house from the road. ‘Well, Mike,’ said Richard, ‘I see you’ve lived in France in your time.’ ‘Not me, sorr! And what might your honour be after with those words?’ ‘You weed in the French way,’ Richard returned--‘on hands and knees instead of stooping.’ It was a wild statement, but it served as well as another. ‘I’ve never been to France but once, your honour, and then I didn’t get there, on account of the sea being so unruly. ’Twas a day trip to Boulogne from London, and sure we had everything in the programme except Boulogne. ’Twas a beautiful sight, Boulogne, but not so beautiful as London when we arrived back at night, thanks to the Blessed Virgin.’ ‘Then you are a French scholar?’ said Richard. ‘Wee, wee, bong, merci! That’s me French, and it’s proud I am of it, your honour. I’ve no other tricks.’ ‘Haven’t you!’ thought Richard; and he passed into the house. Mike proceeded calmly with his weeding. On inquiry for Miss Craig, Bridget, with a look which seemed to say ‘Hands off,’ informed him that the young lady was in the orchard. He accordingly sought the orchard, and discovered Teresa idly swinging in a hammock that was slung between two apple-trees. ‘Well, Mr. Redgrave,’ she questioned, ‘have you found that lost screw?’ ‘I have found it,’ he said, ‘and put both cars in order. What with three cars and two horses, you and Mr. Craig should be tolerably well supplied with the means of locomotion.’