"Suppose," I said, "we could convince Mortimer of that!" "I don't understand." "Suppose, for instance, he could be made to believe that you were, let us say, a dipsomaniac." She shook her head. "He knows that already." "What!" "Yes; I told him I sometimes walked in my sleep." "I mean a secret drinker." "Nothing will induce me to pretend to be a secret drinker." "Then a drug-fiend?" I suggested, hopefully. "I hate medicine." "I have it!" I said. "A kleptomaniac." "What is that?" "A person who steals things." "Oh, that's horrid." "Not at all. It's a perfectly ladylike thing to do. You don't know you do it." "But, if I don't know I do it, how do I know I do it?" "I beg your pardon?" "I mean, how can I tell Mortimer I do it if I don't know?" "You don't tell him. I will tell him. I will inform him tomorrow that you called on me this afternoon and stole my watch and"--I glanced about the room--"my silver matchbox." "I'd rather have that little vinaigrette." "You don't get either. I merely say you stole it. What will happen?" "Mortimer will hit you with a cleek." "Not at all. I am an old man. My white hairs protect me. What he will do is to insist on confronting me with you and asking you to deny the foul charge." "And then?" "Then you admit it and release him from his engagement." She sat for a while in silence. I could see that my words had made an impression. "I think it's a splendid idea. Thank you very much." She rose and moved to the door. "I knew you would suggest something wonderful." She hesitated. "You don't think it would make it sound more plausible if I really took the vinaigrette?" she added, a little wistfully. "It would spoil everything," I replied, firmly, as I reached for the vinaigrette and locked it carefully in my desk. She was silent for a moment, and her glance fell on the carpet. That, however, did not worry me. It was nailed down. "Well, good-bye," she said. "_Au revoir_," I replied. "I am meeting Mortimer at six-thirty tomorrow. You may expect us round at your house at about eight." * * * * * Mortimer was punctual at the tryst next morning. When I reached the tenth tee he was already there. We exchanged a brief greeting and I handed him a driver, outlined the essentials of grip and swing, and bade him go to it. "It seems a simple game," he said, as he took his stance. "You're sure it's fair to have the ball sitting up on top of a young sand-hill like this?" "Perfectly fair." "I mean, I don't want to be coddled because I'm a beginner." "The ball is always teed up for the drive," I assured him. "Oh, well, if you say so. But it seems to me to take all the element of sport out of the game. Where do I hit it?" "Oh, straight ahead." "But isn't it dangerous? I mean, suppose I smash a window in that house over there?" He indicated a charming bijou residence some five hundred yards down the fairway.