The couples were now moving off with smooth rapidity, and the course was dotted with the figures of players and their accompanying spectators. A fair proportion of these latter had decided to follow the fortunes of Raymond Gandle, but by far the larger number were sticking to Wallace, who right from the start showed that Gandle or any one else would have to return a very fine card to beat him. He was out in thirty-seven, two above bogey, and with the assistance of a superb second, which landed the ball within a foot of the pin, got a three on the tenth, where a four is considered good. I mention this to show that by the time he arrived at the short lake-hole Wallace Chesney was at the top of his form. Not even the fact that he had been obliged to let the next couple through owing to Peter Willard losing his ball had been enough to upset him. * * * * * The course has been rearranged since, but at that time the lake-hole, which is now the second, was the eleventh, and was generally looked on as the crucial hole in a medal round. Wallace no doubt realised this, but the knowledge did not seem to affect him. He lit his pipe with the utmost coolness: and, having replaced the match-box in his hip-pocket, stood smoking nonchalantly as he waited for the couple in front to get off the green. They holed out eventually, and Wallace walked to the tee. As he did so, he was startled to receive a resounding smack. “Sorry,” said Peter Willard, apologetically. “Hope I didn’t hurt you. A wasp.” And he pointed to the corpse, which was lying in a used-up attitude on the ground. “Afraid it would sting you,” said Peter. “Oh, thanks,” said Wallace. He spoke a little stiffly, for Peter Willard had a large, hard, flat hand, the impact of which had shaken him up considerably. Also, there had been laughter in the crowd. He was fuming as he bent to address his ball, and his annoyance became acute when, just as he reached the top of his swing, Peter Willard suddenly spoke. “Just a second, old man,” said Peter. Wallace spun round, outraged. “What _is_ it? I do wish you would wait till I’ve made my shot.” “Just as you like,” said Peter, humbly. “There is no greater crime that a man can commit on the links than to speak to a fellow when he’s making his stroke.” “Of course, of course,” acquiesced Peter, crushed. Wallace turned to his ball once more. He was vaguely conscious of a discomfort to which he could not at the moment give a name. At first he thought that he was having a spasm of lumbago, and this surprised him, for he had never in his life been subject to even a suspicion of that malady. A moment later he realised that this diagnosis had been wrong. “Good heavens!” he cried, leaping nimbly some two feet into the air. “I’m on fire!” “Yes,” said Peter, delighted at his ready grasp of the situation. “That’s what I wanted to mention just now.” Wallace slapped vigorously at the seat of his Plus Fours.