Cleves searched the links. “I don’t see him. Perhaps he had to go back for another ball.”
“I wonder who he was,” she mused.
“I don’t remember seeing him before,” said Cleves.... “Shall we start back?”
They walked slowly across the course toward the tenth hole.
Tressa teed up, drove low and straight. Cleves sliced, and they walked together into the scrub and towards the woods, where his ball had bounded into a bunch of palm trees.
Far in among the trees something white moved and vanished.
“Probably a white egret,” he remarked, knocking about in the scrub with his midiron.
“It was that young man in white flannels,” said Tressa in a low voice.
“What would he be doing in there?” he asked incredulously. “That’s merely a jungle, Tressa—swamp and cypress, thorn and creeper,—and no man would go into that mess if he could. There is no bottom to those swamps.”
“But I saw him in there,” she said in a troubled voice.