Mr. Sabin, calmly ignoring him, descended and stepped through the wide open door into a beautiful square hall in the centre of which was a billiard table. A servant attired in unmistakably English livery, stepped forward to meet him. "Is Mrs. Peterson at home?" Mr. Sabin inquired. "We expect her in a very few minutes," the man answered. "She is out riding at present. May I inquire if you are Mr. Sabin, sir?" Mr. Sabin admitted the fact with some surprise. The man received the intimation with respect. "Will you kindly walk this way, your Grace," he said. Mr. Sabin followed him into a large and delightfully furnished library. Then he looked keenly at the servant. "You know me," he remarked. "Monsieur Le Duc Souspennier," the man answered with a bow. "I am an Englishman, but I was in the service of the Marquis de la Merle in Paris for ten years." "Your face," Mr. Sabin said, "was familiar to me. You look like a man to be trusted. Will you be so good as to remember that the Duc is unfortunately dead, and I am Mr. Sabin." "Most certainly, sir," the man answered. "Is there anything which I can bring you?" "Nothing, thank you," Mr. Sabin answered. The man withdrew with a low bow, and Mr. Sabin stood for a few minutes turning over magazines and journals which covered a large round table, and represented the ephemeral literature of nearly every country in Europe. "Mrs. Peterson," he remarked to himself, "must be a woman of Catholic tastes. Here is the _Le Petit Journal_ inside the pages of the English _Contemporary Review_." He was turning the magazines over with interest, when he chanced to glance through the great south window a few feet away from him. Something he saw barely a hundred yards from the little iron fence which bordered the lawns, attracted his attention. He rubbed his eyes and looked at it again. He was puzzled, and was on the point of ringing the bell when the man who had admitted him entered, bearing a tray with liqueurs and cigarettes. Mr. Sabin beckoned him over to the window. "What is that little flag?" he asked. "It is connected, I believe, in some way," the man answered, "with a game of which Mrs. Peterson is very fond. I believe that it indicates the locality of a small hole." "Golf?" Mr. Sabin exclaimed. "That is the name of the game, sir," the man answered. "I had forgotten it for the moment." Mr. Sabin tried the window. "I want to get out," he said. The man opened it. "If you are going down there, sir," he said, "I will send James Green to meet you. Mrs. Peterson is so fond of the game that she keeps a Scotchman here to look after the links and instruct her." "This," Mr. Sabin murmured, "is the most extraordinary thing in the world." "If you would like to see your room, sir, before you go out," the man suggested, "it is quite ready. If you will give me your keys I will have your clothes laid out." Mr. Sabin turned about in amazement. "What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "I have not come here to stay."