She made a sign of impatience; he was too direct. “Oh,” she pouted, “aren’t you taking a good deal for granted? Still, you bushmen can shoot, can’t you?”
“As a rule,” Lisle answered. “I almost think I see.”
“Then,” she retorted, “you shouldn’t have said so; you should merely have smiled and acted.”
“I’m from the wilds; you mustn’t expect too much. Well, if you’ll excuse me.”
She flashed a grateful glance at him, and he sauntered toward the group of men, among whom Gladwyne stood. There was a sharp crack as he approached them, a thin streak of smoke drifted across the figure lying on the mat, and a man beside it lowered the glasses he held.
“High to the left,” he announced. “You’re not in good form, Jim. Hadn’t you better give up?”
Lisle studied the speaker, whom he had met once or twice already. He was approaching middle-age and was inclined to corpulence, but there was something in his pose that suggested a military training. His face was fleshy, but the features were bold and he was coarsely handsome. As a rule, he affected an easy good-humor, but Lisle had felt that there was something about him which he could best describe as predatory. He occasionally spoke of business ties, so he had an occupation, but he had not in Lisle’s hearing mentioned what it was.
Crestwick’s face was hot as he answered his remark.
“Not at all, Batley. The trouble is that I’m used to the Roberts target, and the spots on the card are puzzling after the rings. I’ll get into it presently.”
“Oh, well,” acquiesced the other. “As you didn’t fix a time limit, we’ll go on again, though it’s getting tame and I want some tea.”