And yet—
The first inkling I received that anything was wrong came through a chance meeting with Raymond Gandle, who happened to pass my gate on his way back from the links just as I drove up in my taxi; for I had been away from home for many weeks on a protracted business tour. I welcomed Gandle’s advent and invited him in to smoke a pipe and put me abreast of local gossip. He came readily enough—and seemed, indeed, to have something on his mind and to be glad of the opportunity of revealing it to a sympathetic auditor.
“And how,” I asked him, when we were comfortably settled, “did your game this afternoon come out?”
“Oh, he beat me,” said Gandle, and it seemed to me that there was a note of bitterness in his voice.
“Then He, whoever he was, must have been an extremely competent performer?” I replied, courteously, for Gandle was one of the finest players in the club. “Unless, of course, you were giving him some impossible handicap.”
“No; we played level.”
“Indeed! Who was your opponent?”
“Chesney.”
“Wallace Chesney! And he beat you, playing level! This is the most amazing thing I have ever heard.”
“He’s improved out of all knowledge.”