If you would like to know some details of his appearance, he is thin, wiry, but lacking muscle, a mild edition of Sherlock Holmes, facially--a bit dusty and musty and bachelory, a bit donnish and British and formidable--a man’s man, but not every man’s man. People who like him like him very much--that’s all he cares about. He found himself at the Royal Hotel, Littleford, on March 23rd, 1924, on this account. He has three firm and excellent friends about his own age--which is 47--like himself all keen golfers. Their handicaps range between nine and fourteen--almost certainly the most satisfactory range of all; for those embraced within it are not unduly cast down by the undesired uprising of playful divots, yet they can derive exquisite satisfaction from the production of a Stout Blow, and are sufficiently competent to perpetrate several in the course of a round--humble folk who realise that, if they will never be mistaken for Bobby Jones, it is hardly possible that they will be confused with Harry Tate. Mr. George Dunbar, K.C., masterful, hirsute, with a hypnotic power over juries, Mr. William Cranmer, who knows more about old books than most people, Mr. Alexander Frith, Professor of Moral Philosophy at an Ancient Foundation and a sceptic of sceptics, made up the four who journeyed down to Littleford on this occasion. It had been their cherished custom for many years to leave their faithful readers, their burglarious clientèle, their candidates for firsts in Greats, their cultured bibliophiles to their own disconsolate devices at seasons of the year convenient to them all, and to forgather at certain famous golf courses; and they had chosen that admirable links, Littleford, for their spring pilgrimage in 1924. They intended to stay a week, and had secured their rooms prudently in advance. They travelled down together in Mr. Partridge’s car, and on entering the Royal Hotel were met by a flaccid specimen of the genus Small Hotel-keeper, who was chafing his palms in a deprecating manner. Mr. Partridge addressed him sternly. “You have four rooms engaged for us in my name, which is Partridge.” “I regret to say, sir, only three,” replied the flaccid specimen, “but I have secured an excellent room at a boarding-establishment close at hand,” and he frotted his clammy hands again. If Mr. Partridge had a failing it was a tendency to be choleric at times--and this was one of them. As the organiser of the party it would be his painful duty to sample the boarding-establishment, and, cherishing a peculiar loathing for this type of accommodation, he wasn’t having any. “Look here,” he said with truculence, “I have your letter stating you had reserved _four_ rooms, and I must ask you to keep to your word.” Something in Mr. Partridge’s demeanour daunted the specimen, and he shuffled off down the passage to his office.