“All right, all right,” said Gladstone Bott, impatiently. “You can skip all that. Come down to what happened at the sixteenth.” The caddie looked wounded, but he bowed deferentially. “At the sixteenth hole the man Fisher moved his ball into what--from his actions and furtive manner--I deduced to be a more favourable position.” “Ah!” said Gladstone Bott. “On the seventeenth the man Fisher picked up his ball and threw it with a movement of the wrist on to the green.” “It’s a lie. A foul and contemptible lie,” shouted Bradbury Fisher. “Realising that the man Fisher might adopt this attitude, sir,” said the caddie, “I took the precaution of snapshotting him in the act with my miniature wrist-watch camera, the detective’s best friend.” Bradbury Fisher covered his face with his hands and uttered a hollow groan. “My match,” said Gladstone Bott, with vindicative triumph. “I’ll trouble you to deliver that butler to me f.o.b. at my residence not later than noon to-morrow. Oh yes, and I was forgetting. You owe me three railroads.” * * * * * Blizzard, dignified but kindly, met Bradbury in the Byzantine hall on his return home. “I trust your golf-match terminated satisfactorily, sir?” said the butler. A pang, almost too poignant to be borne, shot through Bradbury. “No, Blizzard,” he said. “No. Thank you for your kind inquiry, but I was not in luck.” “Too bad, sir,” said Blizzard, sympathetically. “I trust the prize at stake was not excessive?” “Well--er--well, it was rather big. I should like to speak to you about that a little later, Blizzard.” “At any time that is suitable to you, sir. If you will ring for one of the assistant-underfootmen when you desire to see me, sir, he will find me in my pantry. Meanwhile, sir, this cable arrived for you a short while back.” Bradbury took the envelope listlessly. He had been expecting a communication from his London agents announcing that they had bought Kent and Sussex, for which he had instructed them to make a firm offer just before he left England. No doubt this was their cable. He opened the envelope, and started as if it had contained a scorpion. It was from his wife. “_Returning immediately ‘Aquitania,’” (it ran). “Docking Friday night. Meet without fail._” Bradbury stared at the words, frozen to the marrow. Although he had been in a sort of trance ever since that dreadful moment on the seventeenth green, his great brain had not altogether ceased to function; and, while driving home in the car, he had sketched out roughly a plan of action which, he felt, might meet the crisis. Assuming that Mrs. Fisher was to remain abroad for another month, he had practically decided to buy a daily paper, insert in it a front-page story announcing the death of Blizzard, forward the clipping to his wife, and then sell his house and move to another neighbourhood. In this way it might be that she would never learn of what had occurred.