The three set out at a rapid pace through the Dingle Dell. The Secret Service man's hand went to his hip pocket, his fingers coming in contact with the butt of a small but powerful automatic pistol. For more than two years the weapon had been Entwistle's constant companion, yet no one, not even his personal friends, were aware of the fact.
"Thought Barcroft would speed things up a bit," he soliloquised. "Going rabbitting with that beauty has done it. Wonder if we are too late?"
Somewhat breathless in spite of their fine physical condition the trio arrived at the foot of Windyhill. As they crossed the stile two shots rang out in quick succession.
"They're up there," announced Billy, pointing to the second field. "I saw some one moving to the right of that clump of bushes."
Over the stone wall the men scrambled. As they did so a single report, more of a crash than the sharp, short detonation of a charge of smokeless powder, came from behind the gorse, followed by a scream of agony that trailed off into a long-drawn groan.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Billy, spurting ahead of his companions.
Rounding the patch of cover he came upon the scene of the tragedy. Lying at full length upon the grass was a man; over him, with his back turned towards the new arrivals, was another—Peter Barcroft.
CHAPTER XXXV
ONE CARTRIDGE LEFT
"AN accident," declared Peter confusedly. The appalling event had completely unnerved him. He hardly seemed to realise that his son had turned up at a most opportune moment. "An accident. His gun burst, goodness only knows why. By Jove, he'll bleed to death if we don't look sharp!"