'Do you remember,' he said at last, 'a man called Angus, who was here reporting on Christmas Eve?'
Mary laid down her knife and fork.
'A painfully powerful-looking man,' said Dowton, 'in hob-nailed boots. I remember him.'
'Well, we have been calling on him,' said Will.
'Calling on him, calling on that impudent newspaper man!' exclaimed the colonel; 'what do you mean?'
'Greybrooke had a row with him some time ago,' said Will; 'I don't know what about, because it was private; but the captain has been looking for the fellow for a fortnight to lick him—I mean punish him. We came upon him two days ago, near the castle gates.'
Here Will paused, as if he would prefer to jump what followed.
'And did your friend "lick" him then?' asked the colonel, at which Will shook his head.
'Why not?' asked Sir Clement.
'Well,' said Will reluctantly, 'the fellow wouldn't let him. He—he lifted Greybrooke up in his arms, and—and dropped him over the hedge.'