It was the sub's turn to be surprised, only, unlike Entwistle, he expressed it openly.
"I saw your name on the dog's collar," explained Entwistle. "Well, don't let me detain you. I wish you good sport."
"We are bound to see you at lunch," said Eric. "The governor will insist upon your staying."
"You are very hospitable," remarked Entwistle.
"Not at all," protested the A.P. "Simply my governor's deputy, don't you know. The fact that you are a friend of Mr. Barcroft is sufficient guarantee for me to ask you."
The Secret Service man, still in the dark as to how much the young naval officer knew of his affairs, raised his cap to Winifred and hastened in the direction of "The Old Croft," while the trio resumed their way.
"Time to load," remarked Eric as they found themselves confronted by a rounded hill, the face of which was studded with gorse and heather. "We'll be bound to have some sport before we get to the top of Plas Tor. Keep fifty yards apart, and go dead in the eye of the wind: that's the move."
Before Farrar had cautiously covered a distance of a hundred yards, the while ascending the somewhat broken ground, a rabbit, surprised in the open, bolted from almost under his feet. He raised his gun, pulled both triggers—and missed. Somewhat to his mortification a shot rang out on his left and down dropped bunny like a stone.
"Simply had to do it," said Winifred, extracting the still smoking cartridge from her gun. "You let off too soon, Mr. Farrar: before the shots had time to spread."
"A clinking shot that of yours, any way," exclaimed the sub enthusiastically. "Eighty yards."