"It's fine to have you," was the hearty response. "Gee, that fellow coming to the sixteenth hole can play some!"
Pamela directed her attention idly towards the figure which her brother indicated—a man in light tweeds, who played with an easy and graceful swing, and with the air of one to whom the game presented no difficulties whatever. She watched him drive for the seventeenth—a long, raking ball, fully fifty yards further than his opponent's— watched him play a perfect mashie shot to the green and hole out in three.
"A birdie," James Van Teyl murmured. "I say, Pamela!"
She took no notice. Her eyes were still following the figure of the golfer. She watched him drive at the last hole, play a chip shot on to the green, and hit the hole for a three. The frown deepened upon her forehead. She was looking very uncompromising when the two men ascended the steps.
"I didn't know, Mr. Lutchester, that there were any factories down this way," she remarked severely, as he paused before her in surprise.
For a single moment she fancied that she saw a flash of annoyance in his eyes. It was gone so swiftly, however, that she remained uncertain. He held out his hand, laughing.
"Fairly caught out, Miss Van Teyl," he confessed. "You see, I was tempted, and I fell."
His companion, an elderly, clean-shaven man, passed on. Pamela glanced after him.
"Who is your opponent?" she asked.
"Just some one I picked up on the tee," Lutchester explained. "How is our friend Fischer this morning?"