“It’s a lie. A foul and contemptible lie,” shouted Bradbury Fisher.
“Realising that the man Fisher might adopt this attitude, sir,” said the caddie, “I took the precaution of snapshotting him in the act with my miniature wrist-watch camera, the detective’s best friend.”
Bradbury Fisher covered his face with his hands and uttered a hollow groan.
“My match,” said Gladstone Bott, with vindicative triumph. “I’ll trouble you to deliver that butler to me f.o.b. at my residence not later than noon to-morrow. Oh yes, and I was forgetting. You owe me three railroads.”
Blizzard, dignified but kindly, met Bradbury in the Byzantine hall on his return home.
“I trust your golf-match terminated satisfactorily, sir?” said the butler.
A pang, almost too poignant to be borne, shot through Bradbury.
“No, Blizzard,” he said. “No. Thank you for your kind inquiry, but I was not in luck.”
“Too bad, sir,” said Blizzard, sympathetically. “I trust the prize at stake was not excessive?”