It was with a light heart that Bradbury Fisher teed up on the seventeenth. The match, he felt, was as good as over. The whole essence of golf is to discover a way of getting out of rough without losing strokes; and with this sensible, broad-minded man of the world caddying for him he seemed to have discovered the ideal way. It cost him scarcely a pang when he saw his drive slice away into a tangle of long grass, but for the sake of appearances he affected a little chagrin. “Tut, tut!” he said. “I shouldn’t worry,” said Gladstone Bott. “You will probably find it sitting upon an india-rubber tee which some one has dropped there.” He spoke sardonically, and Bradbury did not like his manner. But then he never had liked Gladstone Bott’s manner, so what of that? He made his way to where the ball had fallen. It was lying under a bush. “Caddie,” said Bradbury. “Sir?” said the caddie. “A hundred?” “And fifty.” “And fifty,” said Bradbury Fisher. Gladstone Bott was still toiling along the fairway when Bradbury reached the green. “How many?” he asked, eventually winning to the goal. “On in two,” said Bradbury. “And you?” “Playing seven.” “Then let me see. If you take two putts, which is most unlikely, I shall have six for the hole and match.” A minute later Bradbury had picked up his ball out of the cup. He stood there, basking in the sunshine, his heart glowing with quiet happiness. It seemed to him that he had never seen the countryside looking so beautiful. The birds appeared to be singing as they had never sung before. The trees and the rolling turf had taken on a charm beyond anything he had ever encountered. Even Gladstone Bott looked almost bearable. “A very pleasant match,” he said, cordially, “conducted throughout in the most sporting spirit. At one time I thought you were going to pull it off, old man, but there--class will tell.” “I will now make my report,” said the caddie with the walrus moustache. “Do so,” said Gladstone Bott, briefly. Bradbury Fisher stared at the man with blanched cheeks. The sun had ceased to shine, the birds had stopped singing. The trees and the rolling turf looked pretty rotten, and Gladstone Bott perfectly foul. His heart was leaden with a hideous dread. “Your report? Your--your report? What do you mean?” “You don’t suppose,” said Gladstone Bott, “that I would play you an important match unless I had detectives watching you, do you? This gentleman is from the Quick Results Agency. What have you to report?” he said, turning to the caddie. The caddie removed his bushy eyebrows, and with a quick gesture swept off his moustache. “On the twelfth inst.,” he began in a monotonous, sing-song voice, “acting upon instructions received, I made my way to the Goldenville Golf Links in order to observe the movements of the man Fisher. I had adopted for the occasion the Number Three disguise and--”