“Don’t know him,” snapped the clergyman. “Never heard of him.”
“But didn’t you sell someone in Great Bromley some birds,” persisted Larose, “the year before last?”
“Certainly not!” thundered the clergyman. “I have never sold a single wing. No bird leaves this place alive, except it is travelling to be put on exhibition at a show.” He waved his arm round majestically. “This is the pure Owen strain and it shall never be debased by any crossing with meaner quality.”
Larose was nettled by the man’s boastfulness. “But my friend had birds as good as any here,” he retorted, looking round, “at any rate so they seemed to me.”
“A-ah,” exclaimed the Reverend Owen with an ugly look, “then, perhaps, they were the ones stolen from me.” His eyes gleamed fiercely. “Didn’t you say that missing friend o
