“None that I know of now. Mr. Warren must have done it himself. They went down to Washington with him I know that. But what he did with them I have not the slightest idea.” We must have talked for over an hour, for it was around ten when Patton gave a look at his watch and, rising hurriedly, said he had better be getting over to Warren's library. He added that he would spend the day in finding out just what had been done on the book, and asked the telephone address of the girl who had acted as the secretary. As he rose, Carter got up with him and said he would drive him over, first reminding him that we expected him at dinner around seven. The two men had gone down the steps and were by the garage door when Bartley suddenly rose and, calling to Patton, went down on the lawn to his side. For a few moments the two men talked and I could tell from Bartley's manner that he was very serious. Then I saw Patton slowly nod his head, heard him say, “Yes,” and the next moment he climbed into the car, which Carter had run out of the garage. As they drove out of the yard, Bartley stood watching them and after they had turned into the road he came slowly up the steps. His face was grave and at the same time rather troubled. As I started to ask him what was the matter his expression changed. He turned to Ranville and myself and said: “Well, what about a little golf?” Chapter XIV Patton Telephones—“It's Murder” Ranville, at the invitation to play golf, informed us very earnestly that he did not care for the game. So, leaving him with his nose buried deep in a magazine, we went out to the car. The morning was cool, with a breeze sweeping across the lake from the distant hills. Forty-five minutes later we drove up the sweeping road which led to the club house. As we waited our turn to drive off from the first tee, I sank on the bench and studied the view before me. The club house was on a small elevation, and one could take in the countryside for miles around. The lake lay several miles away, its surface dark blue. Six miles in front of us we could see the church steeples in the town as they peered through the leaves of the trees. Across the lake the mountains stood forth etched into sharp lines by the clear air. Golf was a game Bartley loved but one which, strange to say, he failed to play very well. Sometimes his game would be wonderful, at other times directly opposite. He started out with his first drive by one of the worst slices I have ever seen—one which took his ball off the fairway, across the rough and on to the fairway of another hole. When he sank the ball into the first hole with his eighth shot, he turned to give me a little grin.