They motored down to the club-house and played their round. It was a wonderful spring morning, with a soft west wind blowing from the land. Little patches of sea lavender gave purple colour to the marshland. The creeks, winding their way from the sea to the village, shone like quicksilver beneath the vivid sunshine. It was a morning of utter and complete peace. Granet notwithstanding a little trouble with his arm, played carefully and well. When at last they reached the eighteenth green, he holed a wonderful curly putt for the hole and the match. “A great game,” his cousin declared, as they left the green. “Who the devil are these fellows?” There were two soldiers standing at the gate, and a military motor-car drawn up by the side of the road. An orderly stepped forward and addressed Granet. “Captain Granet?” he asked, saluting. Granet nodded and stretched out his hand for the note. The fingers which drew it from the envelope were perfectly steady, he even lifted his head for a moment to look at a lark just overhead. Yet the few hastily scrawled lines were like a message of fate:-- The officer in command at Market Burnham Hall would be obliged if Captain Granet would favour him with an immediate interview, with reference to the events of last night. “Do you mean that you want me to go at once, before luncheon?” he asked the orderly. The man pointed to the car. “My instructions were to take you back at once, sir.” “Come and have a drink first, at any rate,” Geoffrey Anselman insisted. The orderly shook his head, the two soldiers were barring the gateway. “Some one from the War Office has arrived and is waiting to speak to Captain Granet,” he announced. “We’re all coming over after lunch,” young Anselman protested. “Wouldn’t that do?”