"Looks like a flit, Farrar," remarked his companion. "I'll go first. You remain here. If I whistle, one blast will mean that things are progressing favourably, and you can help me round them up. Two blasts mean that there is trouble, so don't forget to keep your pistol handy."
Entwistle deliberately knocked out the ashes from his pipe and placed it in a stout leather case.
"Don't want to have an old pal broken in the scrap," he observed, as he put the case into an inner breast-pocket. "Well, au revoir."
Concealed behind a suitably situated clump of gorse Farrar watched the retreating form of his late companion until the latter gained the blank wall of the cottage, and then edged towards the window.
For some moments Entwistle listened, crouching under the sill of the window, then he boldly tried the door. It was locked. The sound of a peremptory knock wafted to the sub's ears. A little interval and the door was thrown open, and the Secret Service man disappeared from Farrar's view.
Five long-drawn minutes passed, but neither by sight nor sound did Entwistle give indication of the progress of his efforts. The sub was becoming anxious when two shrill blasts rent the air. Entwistle was in difficulty and called for aid.
Pistol in hand, Farrar cleared the intervening stretch of rough ground and dashed through the open doorway to his companion's assistance.
In his impetuosity the sub forgot to exercise due caution. A stick was thrust betwixt his legs, and, tripping, Farrar measured his length upon the ground. Slightly dazed by his fall, the sub was hiked up in the clutches of two burly men—a prisoner—and his automatic weapon taken from him.
Vainly he attempted to break away, but an excruciating pain warned him that his captors were applying a most efficacious arm-lock. To struggle more would mean a broken limb.
"Are you sure that there are no more of these prying Englanders, Schranz?" inquired one of the men, speaking in German.