You are overlooking the fact that Bradbury Fisher’s was the trained and educated conscience of a man who had passed a large portion of his life in Wall Street; and years of practice had enabled him to reduce the control of it to a science. Many a time in the past, when an active operator on the Street, he had done things to the Small Investor which would have caused raised eyebrows in the fo’c’sle of a pirate sloop--and done them without a blush. He was not the man, therefore, to suffer torment merely because he was slipping one over on the Little Woman. Occasionally he would wince a trifle at the thought of what would happen if she ever found out; but apart from that, I am doing no more than state the plain truth when I say that Bradbury Fisher did not care a whoop. Besides, at this point his golf suddenly underwent a remarkable improvement. He had always been a long driver, and quite abruptly he found that he was judging them nicely with the putter. Two weeks after he had started on his campaign of deception he amazed himself and all who witnessed the performance by cracking a hundred for the first time in his career. And every golfer knows that in the soul of the man who does that there is no room for remorse. Conscience may sting the player who is going round in a hundred and ten, but when it tries to make itself unpleasant to the man who is doing ninety-sevens and ninety-eights, it is simply wasting its time. I will do Bradbury Fisher justice. He did regret that he was not in a position to tell his wife all about that first ninety-nine of his. He would have liked to take her into a corner and show her with the aid of a poker and a lump of coal just how he had chipped up to the pin on the last hole and left himself a simple two-foot putt. And the forlorn feeling of being unable to confide his triumphs to a sympathetic ear deepened a week later when, miraculously achieving ninety-six in the medal round, he qualified for the sixth sixteen in the annual invitation tournament of the club to which he had attached himself. “Shall I?” he mused, eyeing her wistfully across the Queen Anne table in the Crystal Boudoir, to which they had retired to drink their after-dinner coffee. “Better not, better not,” whispered Prudence in his ear. “Bradbury,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Yes, darling?” “Have you been hard at work to-day?” “Yes, precious. Very, very hard at work.” “Ho!” said Mrs. Maplebury. “What did you say?” said Bradbury. “I said ho!” “What do you mean, ho?” “Just ho. There is no harm, I imagine, in my saying ho, if I wish to.” “Oh, no,” said Bradbury. “By all means. Not at all. Pray do so.” “Thank you,” said Mrs. Maplebury. “Ho!” “You do have to slave at the office, don’t you?” said Mrs. Fisher. “I do, indeed.” “It must be a great strain.” “A terrible strain. Yes, yes, a terrible strain.” “Then you won’t object to giving it up, will you?” Bradbury started. “Giving it up?”