“I don’t. You omitted the trifling detail that the said brute was chevying anybody. Now, begin at the beginning.”
Wagram laughed. This sort of banter was frequent between the two. The priest reached down for the half-smoked pipe he had let fall, relit it, and listened as Wagram gave him the narrative, concise to baldness.
“Who was the girl?” he said, when Wagram had done.
“That’s just the point. First of all, do you know any people in Bassingham named Calmour?”
“M’yes. That is to say, I know of them.”
“What do they consist of?”
“One parent—male. I believe three daughters. Sons unlimited.”
“What sort of people are they?”
“Ask the old Squire.”
“That’s good enough answer,” laughed Wagram. “You’re not going to give them a bad character, so you won’t give them any. All right. I’ll go and ask him now, and, by Jove,” looking at his watch, “it’s time I did. Good-night.”