“Are you sure there's no mistake, Paul?”
“None whatever. It was the doctor himself who rang up. Peter had no relations, you know, so naturally we'll need to look after things. He served us well, Jay.”
“I remember when he came to Foxhills, and that's years and years ago. The place won't seem quite the same without him. Did the doctor tell you anything about it, Paul?”
“No details. He just rung up to let us know, he said, as we seemed to be the only people who had any real connection with the old boy. Now I come to think of it, that sawbones seemed a bit stuffy over something. A bit abrupt in his manner over the 'phone. He's a new man, apparently. I didn't know his name. Perhaps that was what put him out.”
Chapter II.
A Bus-Driver's Holiday
Sir Clinton Driffield, after a careful examination of the lie, deliberately put down a long putt on the last green of the Lynden Sands course. His opponent, Stanley Fleetwood, stooped and picked up his own ball.
“Your hole and match,” he said, handing his putter back to his caddie.
Sir Clinton nodded.
“Thanks for the game,” he said. “We seem to be fairly even. Much more fun when the thing's in doubt up to the last green. Yes, you might clean 'em,” he added in reply to his caddie's inquiry. “I shan't want them until to-morrow.”
A girl had been sitting on one of the seats overlooking the green; and, as the caddie replaced the pin in the hole, she rose to her feet and came down towards the players. Stanley Fleetwood waved to her, and then, in response to her mute question, he made a gesture of defeat.