"More visitors," replied Mr. Greenwood. "Fortunately the house is large. An old friend of mine—one I haven't seen for over twenty years—is arriving by the down train. Barcroft's his name—Peter Barcroft. You've heard me mention him?"
"By Jove, that's strange!" remarked Farrar. "The Blimp johnny who strafed our pal U 254 is a Barcroft. Any relation, I wonder?"
"Yes, his son," replied Mr. Greenwood. "Peter mentioned that his son Billy was in the Naval Air Service. Good, the signal's down. The train seems pretty punctual."
"Come here, Bruno," ordered the sub, noticing that the animal was rubbing his muzzle against the hand of a dark-featured man who was standing by the ticket-gate.
"I don't mind," exclaimed the man, patting the St. Bernard's head. "Used to animals, you know. Fine brute."
With a casual movement he glanced at the dog's collar—a silver-plated one inscribed "Bruno—Sub-Lieutenant N. Farrar, R.N.V.R., H.M.S. 'Tantalus.'"
"H'm!" he muttered. "Quite a coincidence. ...Here! Good dog, go to your master."
Just then the train ran into the station. Amidst the loud noise of doors opening and shutting about a dozen passengers boarded the train, while nearly three times that number alighted. Amongst them was a well-set-up, clean-shaven man in a Norfolk suit.
"Hullo, Greenwood!" he exclaimed briskly.
"Pleased to meet you again after all this long time. By Jove, I recognise you, you see. Looking jolly fit, too."