“Well, Wagram, and what have you been doing with yourself?” he said, as they passed into a gem of a panelled room looking out upon a lovely picture of smooth sward and feathery elms. It was the smaller dining-room, always used when father and son were alone together.
“Oh, I crept around with the rabbit rifle—a sort of combination of keeping my hand in, and at the same time admiring the evening effects.”
“Did you get any good shots?”
“H’m, rather,” thought Wagram to himself drily. Then aloud, “Do you know anybody in Bassingham, father, by name Calmour?”
“Calmour? Calmour?” repeated the old man dubiously. “I seem to know the name too, but for the life of me I can’t fit it with an owner. Rundle,” as the butler entered, “do I know any Calmour in Bassingham?”
“Well, sir, it’s Major Calmour. Lives at Siege House, just this side of the bridge, sir.” And Wagram thought to detect a subtle grin drooping the corners of the man’s well-trained mouth as he filled the Squire’s glass.
“To be sure, to be sure. Now it all comes back. Major Calmour! Ho—ho—ho! Wagram, that’s the man right enough. Why? Has he been writing to you about anything?”
“No. But—who is he, anyway?”
“He is a retired army veterinary surgeon, addicted to strong drink, and a wholly unnecessarily lurid way of expressing himself.”
“I know the species. What sort of a crowd are his descendants?”