"An old friend of mine, a veterinary surgeon," explained Mr. Barcroft. "He lives but a few miles from me. The world is small. I hardly expected to find him here."
A quarter of an hour later the car pulled up at "The Old Croft," at Penkestle, a long, two-storied stone building like many another to be found in Cornwall.
"Show Farrar his room, Eric," said Mr. Greenwood after the guests had been introduced to Mrs. Greenwood and her two daughters: Doris, now Mrs. Ronald Tressidar, and Winifred, a lively girl of seventeen or eighteen. "I'll take Peter to his temporary quarters. Dinner is when, my dear?"
"At eight, for this night only," replied Mrs. Greenwood. "Now, girls, set to. We've each our allotted tasks now, owing to the shortage of servants," she explained. "Eric, you've come home at a very opportune moment."
"How's that, mater?" asked the A.P.
"There's no meat for to-morrow, so you can organise a rabbit-shooting party. You'll like to take a gun, Mr. Farrar?"
"Rather," replied the sub with alacrity.
"And Mr. Barcroft?" inquired the A.P.
Peter was in the act of following his host upstairs. He stopped and shook his head.
"Thanks," he replied. "I'm not taking any just at present," he observed. "Used to do a lot of shooting on the moors. Saw a man... an—er—acquaintance, or, rather, a neighbour, messed about pretty badly through his gun bursting.... He died soon after. It put me off absolutely."