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Meanwhile, young Ffrench sped along the lower road to Bolan's house. The sexton was in, just preparing for a smoke in company with the local blacksmith, when Gerald entered with the news of the uncanny discovery in the churchyard. Eleven young Bolans, grouped around the turf fire, drank in the intelligence and instantly scattered to spread the report in eleven different directions.
There's nothin' friendly, though, about the straight, tight-lipped mouth, or the surprised look in her eyes as she discovers me standin' there. "Mr. McCabe?" says she. "You see," says I, grinnin' foolish, "there's a chap outside who who has a batty idea he used to know you." "Really?" says she, narrowin' her eyes a bit. "Bolan's the name, Ma'am," I goes on, "Larry Bolan."
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