He drew aside the blind and peered into the darkness. At that moment the train rumbled under a broad bridge. "Sorry!" he exclaimed. "We're already half way between Blackberry Cross and Tarleigh. We must have taken the wrong train: it's a non-stop to Windyhill." "Don't mention it," rejoined Peter affably. "I'm quite enjoying your society. An hour or so won't make very much difference provided I can get home before eleven. I hope you won't be inconvenienced?" The stranger laughed. "I'm secretary of the Tarleigh and Blackberry Cross Golf Club," he explained. "Entwistle--Philip Entwistle--is my name. By profession I am what is commonly known as a vet. It's our Annual General Meeting, and I'm due there at eight." "'Fraid it will have to stop at the due," said Mr. Barcroft grimly. "It's 7.30 already." "You'll be all right," continued Entwistle. "There's a train back from Windyhill at 10.5, You're a stranger to the district?" "Fairly so," admitted Peter. "I've take Ladybird Fold for three years." "Your name doesn't happen to be Norton--Andrew Norton?" "No," was the reply. "Barcroft's my name. I know Norton. He's a newcomer. Only been here a week, I believe; and in that time he's frozen on to me. Kind of companionship in a strange land, so to speak. He seems a very decent sort; in fact, I rather like him. He's my nearest neighbour and he lives at least half a mile from Ladybird Fold." "What is he?" asked Entwistle. "Independent?" "So I should imagine. He has plenty of time on his hands, and spends a good part of it with me, except when I have to choke him off. He'll be sitting in my study when I get home, for a dead cert. Already he's made it a practice of looking me up at ten o'clock of an evening, after I've knocked off. You see," he added apologetically. "I have to work." "At what?" enquired his companion, the Lancashire thirst for knowledge ever in the foreground. "I am a professional liar," announced Peter with mock gravity. "A what? Oh, I suppose you mean that you're a lawyer?" "Heaven forbid!" protested Mr. Barcroft piously. "You misunderstand me. I am a novelist. Modesty forbids me to give you my _nom de Plume_. At present, however, I am engaged upon a book of a technical character dealing with the conduct of the war. Perhaps some of my theories will be a bit startling when pushed on to the British Public, but they'll be vindicated." "Hang it all!" exclaimed Entwistle. "I have heard of you already." "Have you really?" enquired Peter. Professional vanity--although he was not afflicted with "swollen head"--made him perhaps justifiably keen on hearing outside opinions of his literary efforts. "Yes," continued his companion. "It was the Vicar of Tarleigh. He was in Wheatcroft's place--down the bottom of Blackberry Hill and while he was talking to the old man a car came along driven by you. In it were two sheep dogs barking like fury. I think I am right in the description?" Peter nodded appreciatingly.