“Yes,” said Bobbie at last. “I suppose so.”
It was evening.
Over a study table Terence and Rouse faced one another. Rouse had his chin resting in one hand, and his expression was that of a young man wrestling with a mighty problem.
“You see,” said he, “Seymour’s have challenged us to a friendly.”
“Who really issued the challenge?”
“That,” admitted Rouse, “I don’t quite know. It appears to have originated from Mr Seymour himself, and to have been received by Mr Morley—probably in a parchment envelope handed up on a silver salver.”
“Never mind,” said Terence. “Let’s play them.”
“Oh yes, we’ll play them. Only I’m trying to reason out what’s in the wind. You see, Roe is in Seymour’s.”
“True. I’d forgotten that.”