“A suit before a referee would settle him,” mused Voucher; “he hasn't a leg to stand on. Lord! The same cat that tripped up Stephen Siward!”
Fleetwood's quick eyes glimmered for an instant in Quarrier's direction. Quarrier was in the billiard-room, out of earshot, practising balk-line problems with Major Belwether; and Fleetwood said: “The same cat that tripped up Stephen Siward. Yes. But who let her loose?”
“It was your dinner; you ought to know,” said Voucher bluntly.
“I do know. He brought her”—nodding toward the billiard-room.
“Belwether?”
“No,” yawned Fleetwood.
Somebody said presently: “Isn't he one of the Governors? Oh, I say, that was rather rough on Siward though.”
“Yes, rough. The law of trespass ought to have operated; a man's liable for the damage done by his own live-stock.”
“That's a brutal way of talking,” said somebody. And the subject was closed with the entrance of Agatha in white flannels on her way to the squash court where she had an appointment with Quarrier.
“A strange girl,” said somebody after she had disappeared with Quarrier.