“No one seemed to be much the worse,” Granet replied. “I didn’t think of anything of that sort in connection with Collins, though. Perhaps he might have got hurt.”
“We’ll all go over and have a look for him this afternoon if he hasn’t turned up,” Anselman suggested. “What about playing me a round of golf this morning?”
“Suit me all right,” Granet agreed. “I’d meant to lay up because of my arm, but it’s better this morning. We’ll start early and get back for the papers.”
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.