The Pro. took his pipe out of his mouth. His face did not command a wide range of expression, but for a moment a look of a certain sharpness and subtlety flitted across it. “No, sir, everyone’s in. Mr. and Mrs. Stannard finished a quarter of an hour ago; they were the last.” “That’s funny,” said Mr. Baxter, “I could have sworn I saw someone.” The Pro. paused a moment, as if carefully choosing his reply. “I think, sir, it’s the shadows. I’ve fancied the same thing.” “Well, what do you think of it?” asked the Secretary. “I’m sure it’s a very fine hole, sir, but it’s too good for me. I’ve played it seven times now, and done five fives and two sixes. It’s funny, too, because it’s just my length--a drive and push iron with the ground as hard as this, yet I haven’t found the green with my second shot once. The ball seems to leave the club all right, and then--well, it’s something I’ve never known happen before.” “I hope it’s going to be a success, for it’s been enough bother and expense,” said Mr. Baxter. The Pro. did not answer for a moment. He put his pipe back in his mouth and looked away over to the subject of discussion. At length he asked, “Did they ever discover what the contractor’s men died of, sir?” “Not for certain,” replied the secretary, “blood-poisoning of some kind--a very unfortunate affair.” “The other chaps thought it had something to do with those skulls and bones they dug up. They got talking to the villagers, who put the wind up them a bit, I’m thinking.” “How was that?” asked Mr. Baxter. “It’s some sort of talk about the wood, it seems,” replied Dakers. Mr. Baxter was interested. “I should like to hear more about this,” he said, “but I have no time now. I’ll see you to-morrow.” The next day, the Saturday before the opening of the Autumn meeting, Mr. Baxter played an afternoon round with Colonel Senlis. It was for both of them their first introduction to the new 17th. The Colonel had taken up the game after he retired, and he served it with an even more fanatical devotion than he had served his King. He was a jolly old maniac with a handicap of 16 and a style of his own. Mr. Baxter might have been a very fine player; he had balance, rhythm, and a beautiful pair of hands, but his heart had never been in it, and he was content to be a perfectly reliable 2.