“More likely save us a bit,” grumbled a protestant. “I lost three new balls there to-day. Have you noticed what a stench there was coming from the back of the green?” Cyril Ward went for a stroll with Mr. Baxter when the debate was over. “I wish the old boys weren’t so impatient,” he said. “That hole has beaten me badly twice, but I’d like to have many more shots at it. I shall protest strongly if they decide to change back. Look at it now, the green’s like a pool of blood!” (“A sinister but apt description,” thought Mr. Baxter.) The sun was setting in a wild and tortured sky, and its fiery dying rays certainly painted the seventeenth a sanguine hue. “It’s funny you should say that,” he remarked. “It’s called ‘Blood Wood’ by the locals.” “From what I heard of the expletives used by our worthy fellow foozlers, they certainly agree with them,” laughed Ward. That night Mr. Baxter had a short but disturbing dream. He seemed to hear a deep bell tolling sullenly, and then suddenly a voice cried, “Sacred to the memory of Cyril Ward, who screamed once in Blood Wood,” and then came a discordant chorus of vile and bestial laughter, and he awoke feeling depressed and ill at ease. “This absurd business is getting on my nerves,” he thought, “I’m even dreaming about it,” and he suddenly felt he wanted to leave Duncaster, and the sooner the better. It was too lonely and idle a life, he decided. The next day the gale continued, bringing torrents of rain with it, and there was no competition. The course was a melancholy and deserted waste. Mr. Baxter, as he worked in his office, could hear the great breakers booming beyond the Dunes. About six the rain dwindled to a light drizzle, and Cyril Ward came in to see him, a couple of clubs under his arm. “There’s just enough light to let me defeat that blasted hole,” he said; “the swine fascinates me!” Mr. Baxter found himself rather vehemently trying to persuade him otherwise. “I shouldn’t; it’s still raining, and it will be almost dark in the wood.” “Oh, rot,” said Ward, and presently the Secretary saw him tee up and drive off. He watched him until he had almost reached the wood, and then someone called him to settle a point of bridge law. The windows of the smoking-room were open, and the gale suddenly increased in fury. Mr. Baxter had just given his decision when there came a long scream of agony shaking down the wind. He rushed to the door, the other occupants of the room hustling after him. That terrible cry had come from the wood, and they began running towards it. Suddenly just visible in the gloom, a figure came staggering out from the wood, threw up its arms, and fell. Mr. Baxter dashed towards it as he had not run for twenty years, the others after him. Cyril Ward was lying on his back, his eyes wide, staring, and horrible--obviously dead.