"Jimmy," she said aloud, "it was here you holed that fifteen-yard putt. Do you remember, old man? It was behind that mound you kissed me for the first time. D’you remember, old man? I shan’t forget—ever. But it’s just a dream, Jimmy, a beautiful dream; and one mustn’t pay too much attention to dreams, must one—not after they’ve gone? You won’t think I’m a blighter, boy, will you? _but_ it has lost its sting. You know what it was—at first. But now—oh! my dear—he’s right, that stranger. I’ve been posing. And, Jimmy, I’m going to stop. You’ll understand, lad ... and you’ll be glad too, won’t you—for my sake?" She glanced from one well-remembered spot to another; then, deliberately, she looked up into the grey sky. "_Au revoir_, old chap.... God bless you." It all depended on a four-foot putt. If Ralton holed out, the match would be all square, and they would have to play the nineteenth. By faultless golf he had pulled his opponent down from dormy three at the sixteenth, and now at the last hole he was left with what seemed a certainty, judging by his form up to date. And, as so often happens with certainties, it failed to come off. The ball lipped the hole—hesitated, and stopped a bare inch from the edge. For a moment Ralton looked at it, and then, with a grin, congratulated the victor and strode through the crowd around the green. "Bad luck, sir—bad luck." Complete strangers condoled with him as he passed them, and Ralton smiled his thanks. The game had been a good one, which was all that mattered; and now that it was over, there was no reason why he shouldn’t return at once to Portsdown-on-Sea. It was a nice place, he told himself—good golf—and... "Well played, my friend—well played." He stopped abruptly, and stared at the speaker. "You! But what are you doing here?" "I understood it was a public place," she murmured. "I thought you were at Portsdown," he said, slowly. "I was until last night," she answered. "I’m going back to-morrow." "So am I." Ralton smiled. "I wonder if you’d help me on the journey." "Help you?" The girl seemed a little surprised. "I’m taking down my small son," he explained, "and I feel certain I shall lose the nurse." She looked at him in silence for a while. "Why, yes, Mr. ... er ... Jones," and her voice was very low, "I think I might be able to manage it—now." THE END Made and Printed in Great Britain. Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. * * * * * * * * *BOOKS BY "SAPPER"*