There was a swishing sound, and through the curtains before the window a large form burst. Jane raised her head above the Chesterfield. William was standing there, a menacing figure. The two detectives had left the alcove and were moistening their pencils. And in the middle of the room stood Rodney Spelvin, stooping slightly and grasping Anastatia’s parasol in his hands. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why is it wrong to hold the dam’ thing tight?” He looked up and perceived his visitors. “Ah, Bates,” he said, absently. He turned to Anastatia again. “I should have thought that the tighter you held it, the more force you would get into the shot.” “But don’t you see, you poor zimp,” replied Anastatia, “that you’ve got to keep the ball straight. If you grip the shaft as if you were a drowning man clutching at a straw and keep your fingers under like that, you’ll pull like the dickens and probably land out of bounds or in the rough. What’s the good of getting force into the shot if the ball goes in the wrong direction, you cloth-headed goof?” “I see now,” said Rodney, humbly. “How right you always are!” “Look here,” interrupted William, folding his arms. “What is the meaning of this?” “You want to grip firmly but lightly,” said Anastatia. “Firmly but lightly,” echoed Rodney. “What is the meaning of this?” “And with the fingers. Not with the palms.” “What is the meaning of this?” thundered William. “Anastatia, what are you doing in this man’s rooms?” “Giving him a golf lesson, of course. And I wish you wouldn’t interrupt.” “Yes, yes,” said Rodney, a little testily. “Don’t interrupt, Bates, there’s a good fellow. Surely you have things to occupy you elsewhere?” “We’ll go upstairs,” said Anastatia, “where we can be alone.” “You will not go upstairs,” barked William. “We shall get on much better there,” explained Anastatia. “Rodney has fitted up the top-floor back as an indoor practising room.” Jane darted forward with a maternal cry. “My poor child, has the scoundrel dared to delude you by pretending to be a golfer? Darling, he is nothing of the kind.” Mr. Reginald Brown coughed. For some moments he had been twitching restlessly. “Talking of golf,” he said, “it might interest you to hear of a little experience I had the other day at Marshy Moor. I had got a nice drive off the tee, nothing record-breaking, you understand, but straight and sweet. And what was my astonishment on walking up to play my second to find--” “A rather similar thing happened to me at Windy Waste last Tuesday,” interrupted Mr. Delancey. “I had hooked my drive the merest trifle, and my caddie said to me, ‘You’re out of bounds.’ ‘I am not out of bounds,’ I replied, perhaps a little tersely, for the lad had annoyed me by a persistent habit of sniffing. ‘Yes, you are out of bounds,’ he said. ‘No, I am not out of bounds,’ I retorted. Well, believe me or believe me not, when I got up to my ball--” “Shut up!” said William.