"We don't
want to be beaten, you know," said Quisante.
A silence of some minutes followed. Quisante, rose and strolled off to a
table, where he began to sort papers; Foster sat where he was, frowning a
little, with his mouth pursed up. He stole a glance at Quisante's back, a
curious enquiring glance.
"I know nothing about the rights of it one way or the other," he said at
last. "But some of the men up at the mills and in my place still remember
Tom Sinnett's affair. Only the other night, as Sir Winterton drove by,
one of them shouted out, 'Where's Susy Sinnett?'"
Quisante went on sorting papers and did not turn round.
"Who the deuce is Susy Sinnett?" he asked indifferently, with a laugh.
"It was about five years ago--before Sir Winterton's split with the
Liberals. Tom was a keeper in Sir Winterton's employ, and Sir Winterton
charged him with netting game and sending it to London on his own
account." Foster's narrative ceased and he looked again at his
candidate's back. The papers rustled and the cigar smoke mounted to the
ceiling.
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