"Yes, confound them." The keen eyes were still on Foster; the fat old man shifted his position a little and ceased to meet their regard. "We don't want to be beaten, you know," said Quisanté.
A silence of some minutes followed. Quisanté, rose and strolled off to a table, where he began to sort papers; Foster sat where he was, frowning a little, with his mouth pursed up. He stole a glance at Quisanté's back, a curious enquiring glance.
"I know nothing about the rights of it one way or the other," he said at last. "But some of the men up at the mills and in my place still remember Tom Sinnett's affair. Only the other night, as Sir Winterton drove by, one of them shouted out, 'Where's Susy Sinnett?'"
Quisanté went on sorting papers and did not turn round.
"Who the deuce is Susy Sinnett?" he asked indifferently, with a laugh.
"It was about five years ago—before Sir Winterton's split with the Liberals. Tom was a keeper in Sir Winterton's employ, and Sir Winterton charged him with netting game and sending it to London on his own account." Foster's narrative ceased and he looked again at his candidate's back. The papers rustled and the cigar smoke mounted to the ceiling. "Well?" said Quisanté.
"Tom was found guilty at Sessions; but in the dock he declared Sir Winterton had trumped up the charge to shut his mouth."
"What about?"
"Well, because he'd found Sir Winterton dangling after Susy, and threatened to break his head if he found him there again." He paused, Quisanté made no comment. "Tom got nine months, and when he came out all the family emigrated to Manitoba."
After a short pause, filled by the arrangement of papers, Quisanté observed, "That must have cost money. He'd saved out of what he got for the game, eh?"