The Golf Course Mystery Read online

  Produced by Polly Stratton

  THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY

  by Chester K. Steele

  CONTENTS

  I PUTTING OUT II THE NINETEENTH HOLE III "Why?" IV VIOLA'S DECISION V HARRY'S MISSION VI By A QUIET STREAM VII THE INQUEST VIII ON SUSPICION IX 58 C. H--161* X A WATER HAZARD XI POISONOUS PLANTS XII BLOSSOM'S SUSPICIONS XIII CAPTAIN POLAND CONFESSES XIV THE PRIVATE SAFE XV POOR FISHING XVI SOME LETTERS XVII OVER THE TELEPHONE XVIII A LARGE BLONDE LADY XIX "UNKNOWN" XX A MEETING XXI THE LIBRARY POSTA XXII THE LARGE BLONDE AGAIN XXIII MOROCCO KATE, ALLY XXIV STILL WATERS

  CHAPTER I. PUTTING OUT

  There was nothing in that clear, calm day, with its blue sky and itsflooding sunshine, to suggest in the slightest degree the awful tragedyso close at hand--that tragedy which so puzzled the authorities andwhich came so close to wrecking the happiness of several innocentpeople.

  The waters of the inlet sparkled like silver, and over those waterspoised the osprey, his rapidly moving wings and fan-spread tailsuspending him almost stationary in one spot, while, with eager andfar-seeing eyes, he peered into the depths below. The bird was a darkblotch against the perfect blue sky for several seconds, and then,suddenly folding his pinions and closing his tail, he darted downwardlike a bomb dropped from an aeroplane.

  There was a splash in the water, a shower of sparkling drops as theosprey arose, a fish vainly struggling in its talons, and from a dustygray roadster, which had halted along the highway while the occupantwatched the hawk, there came an exclamation of satisfaction.

  "Did you see that, Harry?" called the occupant of the gray car toa slightly built, bronzed companion in a machine of vivid yellow,christened by some who had ridden in it the "Spanish Omelet." "Did yousee that kill? As clean as a hound's tooth, and not a lost motion of afeather. Some sport-that fish-hawk! Gad!"

  "Yes, it was a neat bit of work, Gerry. But rather out of keeping withthe day."

  "Out of keeping? What do you mean?"

  "Well, out of tune, if you like that better. It's altogether too perfecta day for a killing of any sort, seems to me."

  "Oh, you're getting sentimental all at once, aren't you, Harry?" askedCaptain Gerry Poland, with just the trace of a covert sneer in hisvoice. "I suppose you wouldn't have even a fish-hawk get a much neededmeal on a bright, sunshiny day, when, if ever, he must have a whale ofan appetite. You'd have him wait until it was dark and gloomy and rainy,with a north-east wind blowing, and all that sort of thing. Now for me,a kill is a kill, no matter what the weather."

  "The better the day the worse the deed, I suppose," and Harry Bartlettsmiled as he leaned forward preparatory to throwing the switch of hismachine's self-starter, for both automobiles had come to a stop to watchthe osprey.

  "Oh, well, I don't know that the day has anything to do with it," saidthe captain--a courtesy title, bestowed because he was president of theMaraposa Yacht Club. "I was just interested in the clean way the beggardived after that fish. Flounder, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, though usually the birds are glad enough to get a moss-bunker.Well, the fish will soon be a dead one, I suppose."

  "Yes, food for the little ospreys, I imagine. Well, it's a good death todie--serving some useful purpose, even if it's only to be eaten. Gad! Ididn't expect to get on such a gruesome subject when we started out.By the way, speaking of killings, I expect to make a neat one to-day onthis cup-winners' match."

  "How? I didn't know there was much betting."

  "Oh, but there is; and I've picked up some tidy odds against our friendCarwell. I'm taking his end, and I think he's going to win."

  "Better be careful, Gerry. Golf is an uncertain game, especially whenthere's a match on among the old boys like Horace Carwell and the crowdof past-performers and cup-winners he trails along with. He's just aslikely to pull or slice as the veriest novice, and once he starts toslide he's a goner. No reserve comeback, you know."

  "Oh, I'm not so sure about that. He'll be all right if he'll let thechampagne alone before he starts to play. I'm banking on him. At thesame time I haven't bet all my money. I've a ten spot left that saysI can beat you to the clubhouse, even if one of my cylinders has beenmissing the last two miles. How about it?"

  "You're on!" said Harry Bartlett shortly.

  There was a throb from each machine as the electric motors started theengines, and then they shot down the wide road in clouds of dust--thesinister gray car and the more showy yellow--while above them, drivingits talons deeper into the sides of the fish it had caught, the ospreycircled off toward its nest of rough sticks in a dead pine tree on theedge of the forest.

  And on the white of the flounder appeared bright red spots of blood,some of which dripped to the ground as the cruel talons closed untilthey met inside.

  It was only a little tragedy, such as went on every day in the inlet andadjacent ocean, and yet, somehow, Harry Bartlett, as he drove on withever-increasing speed in an endeavor to gain a length on his opponent,could not help thinking of it in contrast to the perfect blue of thesky, in which there was not a cloud. Was it prophetic?

  Ruddy-faced men, bronze-faced men, pale-faced men; young women, girls,matrons and "flappers"; caddies burdened with bags of golf clubs andpockets bulging with cunningly found balls; skillful waiters hurryinghere and there with trays on which glasses of various shapes, sizes,and of diversified contents tinkled musically-such was the scene at theMaraposa Club on this June morning when Captain Gerry Poland and HarryBartlett were racing their cars toward it.

  It was the chief day of the year for the Maraposa Golf Club, for on itwere to be played several matches, not the least in importance beingthat of the cup-winners, open only to such members as had won prizes inhotly contested contests on the home links.

  In spite of the fact that on this day there were to be played severalmatches, in which visiting and local champions were to try theirskill against one another, to the delight of a large gallery, interestcentered in the cup-winners' battle. For it was rumored, and not withoutsemblance of truth, that large sums of money would change hands on theresult.

  Not that it was gambling-oh, my no! In fact any laying of wagers wasstrictly prohibited by the club's constitution. But there are ways andmeans of getting cattle through a fence without taking down the bars,and there was talk that Horace Carwell had made a pretty stiff bet withMajor Turpin Wardell as to the outcome of the match, the major and Mr.Carwell being rivals of long standing in the matter of drives and putts.

  "Beastly fine day, eh, what?" exclaimed Bruce Garrigan, as he set downon a tray a waiter held out to him a glass he had just emptied withevery indication of delight in its contents. "If it had been made toorder couldn't be improved on," and he flicked from the lapel of TomSharwell's coat some ashes which had blown there from the cigarettewhich Garrigan had lighted.

  "You're right for once, Bruce, old man," was the laughing response."Never mind the ashes now, you'll make a spot if you rub any harder."

  "Right for once? 'm always right!" cried Garrigan "And it may interestyou to know that the total precipitation, including rain and melted snowin Yuma, Arizona, for the calendar year 1917, was three and one tenthinches, being the smallest in the United States."

  "It doesn't interest me a bit, Bruce!" laughed Sharwell. "And to preventyou getting any more of those statistics out of your system, come onover and we'll do a little precipitating on our own account. I can standanother Bronx cocktail."

  "I'm with you! But, speaking of statistics, did you know that from thenational forests of the United State
s in the last year there was cut840,612,030 board feet of lumber? What the thirty feet were for I don'tknow, but--"

  "And I don't care to know," interrupted Tom. "If you spring any more ofthose beastly dry figures--Say, there comes something that does interestme, though!" he broke in with. "Look at those cars take that turn!"

  "Some speed," murmured Garrigan. "It's Bartlett and Poland," he wenton, as a shift of wind blew the dust to one side and revealed the grayroadster and the Spanish Omelet. "The rivals are at it again."

  Bruce Garrigan, who had a name among the golf club members as a humanencyclopaedia, and who, at times, would inform his companions on almostany subject that chanced to come uppermost, tossed away his cigaretteand, with Tom Sharwell, watched the oncoming automobile racers.

  "They're rivals in more ways than one," remarked Sharwell. "And itlooks, now, as though the captain rather had the edge on Harry, in spiteof the fast color of Harry's car."

  "That's right," admitted Garrigan. "Is it true what I've heard aboutboth of them-that each hopes to place the diamond hoop of proprietorshipon the fair Viola?"

  "I guess if you've heard that they're both trying for her, it's trueenough," answered Sharwell. "And it also happens, if that old lady, Mrs.G. 0. 5. Sipp, is to be believed, that there, also, the captain has theadvantage."

  "How's that? I thought Harry had made a tidy sum on that ship-buildingproject he put through."

  "He did, but it seems that he and his family have a penchant for doingthat sort of thing, and, some years ago, in one of the big mergers inwhich his family took a prominent part, they, or some one connected withthem, pinched the Honorable Horace Carwell so that he squealed for mercylike a lamb led to the Wall street slaughter house."

  "So that's the game, is it?"

  "Yes. And ever since then, though Viola Carwell has been just as niceto Harry as she has to Gerry--as far as any one can tell-there has beentalk that Harry is persona non grata as far as her father goes. He neverforgives any business beat, I understand."

  "Was it anything serious?" asked Garrigan, as they watched the racingautomobiles swing around the turn of the road that led to the clubhouse.

  "I don't know the particulars. It was before my time--I mean before Ipaid much attention to business."

  "Rot! You don't now. You only think you do. But I'm interested. I expectto have some business dealing with Carwell myself, and if I could get aline--"

  "Sorry, but I can't help you out, old man. Better see Harry. Heknows the whole story, and he insists that it was all straight on hisrelatives' part. But it's like shaking a mince pie at a Thanksgivingturkey to mention the matter to Carwell. He hasn't gone so far as toforbid Harry the house, but there's a bit of coldness just the same."

  "I see. And that's why the captain has the inside edge on the love game.Well, Miss Carwell has a mind of her own, I fancy."

  "Indeed she has! She's more like her mother used to be. I remember Mrs.Carwell when I was a boy. She was a dear, somewhat conventional lady.How she ever came to take up with the sporty Horace, or he with her, wasa seven-days' wonder. But they lived happily, I believe."

  "Then Mrs. Carwell is dead?"

  "Oh, yes-some years. Mr. Carwell's sister, Miss Mary, keeps The Haven upto date for him. You've been there?"

  "Once, at a reception. I'm not on the regular calling list, though MissViola is pretty enough to--"

  "Look out!" suddenly cried Sharwell, as though appealing to the twoautomobilists, far off as they were. For the yellow car made a suddenswerve and seemed about to turn turtle.

  But Bartlett skillfully brought the Spanish Omelet back on the roadagain, and swung up alongside his rival for the home stretch-the broadhighway that ran in front of the clubhouse.

  The players who were soon to start out on the links; the guests, thegallery, and the servants gathered to see the finish of the imprompturace, murmurs arising as it was seen how close it was likely to be.And close it was, for when the two machines, with doleful whinings ofbrakes, came to a stop in front of the house, the front wheels were insuch perfect alignment that there was scarcely an inch of difference.

  "A dead heat!" exclaimed Bartlett, as he leaped out and motioned for oneof the servants to take the car around to the garage.

  "Yes, you win!" agreed Captain Poland, as he pushed his goggles back onhis cap. He held out a bill.

  "What's it for?" asked Bartlett, drawing back.

  "Why, I put up a ten spot that I'd beat you. I didn't, and you win."

  "Buy drinks with your money!" laughed Bartlett. "The race was to be fora finish, not a dead heat. We'll try it again, sometime."

  "All right-any time you like!" said the captain crisply, as he sat downat a table after greeting some friends. "But you won't refuse to split aquart with me?"

  "No. My throat is as dusty as a vacuum cleaner. Have any of the matchesstarted yet, Bruce?" he asked, turning to the Human Encyclopedia.

  "Only some of the novices. And, speaking of novices, do you know that inScotland there are fourteen thousand, seven hundred--"

  "Cut it, Bruce! Cut it!" begged the captain. "Sit in--you and Tom--andwe'll make it two bottles. Anything to choke off your flow of uselessstatistics!" and he laughed good-naturedly.

  "When does the cup-winners' match start?" asked Bartlett, as the fouryoung men sat about the table under the veranda. "That's the one I'minterested in."

  "In about an hour," announced Sharwell, as he consulted a card. "Hardlyany of the veterans are here yet."

  "Has Mr. Carwell arrived?" asked Captain Poland, as he raised his glassand seemed to be studying the bubbles that spiraled upward from thehollow stem.

  "You'll know when he gets here," answered Bruce Garrigan.

  "How so?" asked the captain. "Does he have an official announcer?"

  "No, but you'll hear his car before you see it."

  "New horn?"

  "No, new car-new color-new everything!" said Garrigan. "He's just boughta new ten thousand dollar French car, and it's painted red, white andblue, and-"

  "Red, white and blue?" chorused the other three men.

  "Yes. Very patriotic. His friends don't know whether he's honoring UncleSam or the French Republic. However, it's all the same. His car is awonder."

  "I must have a brush with him!" murmured Captain Poland.

  "Don't. You'll lose out," advised Garrigan. "It can do eighty on fourthspeed, and Carwell is sporty enough to slip it into that gear if heneeded to."

  "Um! Guess I'll wait until I get my new machine, then," decided thecaptain.

  There was more talk, but Bartlett gradually dropped out of theconversation and went to walk about the club grounds.

  Maraposa was a social, as well as a golfing, club, and the scene of manydances and other affairs. It lay a few miles back from the shore nearLakeside, in New Jersey. The clubhouse was large and elaborate, and thegrounds around it were spacious and well laid out.

  Not far away was Loch Harbor, where the yachts of the club of whichCaptain Gerry Poland was president anchored, and a mile or so in theopposite direction was Lake Tacoma, on the shore of which was Lakeside.A rather exclusive colony summered there, the hotel numbering manywealthy persons among its patrons.

  Harry Bartlett, rather wishing he had gone in for golf more devotedly,was wandering about, casually greeting friends and acquaintances,when he heard his name called from the cool and shady depths of asummer-house on the edge of the golf links.

  "Oh, Minnie! How are you?" he cordially greeted a rather tall and darkgirl who extended her slim hand to him. "I didn't expect to see youtoday."

  "Oh, I take in all the big matches, though I don't play much myself,"answered Minnie Webb. "I'm surprised to find you without a caddy,though, Harry."

  "Too lazy, I'm afraid. I'm going to join the gallery to-day. Meanwhile,if you don't mind, I'll sit in here and help you keep cool."

  "It isn't very hard to do that to-day," and she moved over to make roomfor him. "Isn't it just perfect weather!"

  At o
ne time Minnie Webb and Harry Bartlett had been very closefriends--engaged some rumors had it. But now they were jolly goodcompanions, that was all.

  "Seen the Carwells' new machine?" asked Bartlett.

  "No, but I've heard about it. I presume they'll drive up in it to-day."

  "Does Viola run it?"

  "I haven't heard. It's a powerful machine, some one said-more of a racerthan a touring car, Mr. Blossom was remarking."

  "Well, he ought to know. I understand he's soon to be taken intopartnership with Mr. Carwell."

  "I don't know," murmured Minnie, and she seemed suddenly very muchinterested in the vein structure of a leaf she pulled from a vine thatcovered the summer-house.

  Bartlett smiled. Gossip had it that Minnie Webb and Le Grand Blossom,Mr. Carwell's private secretary, were engaged. But there had beenno formal announcement, though the two had been seen together morefrequently of late than mere friendship would warrant.

  There was a stir in front of the clubhouse, followed by a murmur ofvoices, and Minnie, peering through a space in the vines, announced:

  "There's the big car now. Oh, I don't like that color at all!I'm as patriotic as any one, but to daub a perfectly good car up likethat--well, it's--"

  "Sporty, I suppose Carwell thinks," finished Bartlett. He had risen asthough to leave the summerhouse, but as he saw Captain Poland step upand offer his hand to Viola Carwell, he drew back and again sat downbeside Minnie.

  A group gathered about the big French car, obviously to the delight ofMr. Carwell, who was proud of the furor created by his latest purchase.

  Though he kept up his talk with Minnie in the summer-house, HarryBartlett's attention was very plainly not on his present companion northe conversation. At any other time Minnie Webb would have noticed itand taxed him with it, but now, she, too, had her attention centeredelsewhere. She watched eagerly the group about the big machine, and hereyes followed the figure of a man who descended from the rear seat andmade his way out along a path that led to a quiet spot.

  "I think I'll go in now," murmured Minnie Webb. "I have to see--"Bartlett was not listening. In fact he was glad of the diversion, forhe saw Viola Carwell turn with what he thought was impatience aside fromCaptain Poland, and that was the very chance the other young man hadbeen waiting for.

  He followed Minnie Webb from the little pavilion, paying no attention towhere she drifted. But he made his way through the press of persons towhere Viola stood, and he saw her eyes light up as he approached. His,too, seemed brighter.

  "I was wondering if you would come to see dad win," she murmured tohim, as he took her hand, and Captain Poland, with a little bow, steppedback.

  "You knew I'd come, didn't you?" Bartlett asked in a low voice.

  "I hoped so," she murmured. "Now, Harry," she went on in a low voice,as they moved aside, "this will be a good time for you to smooththings over with father. If he wins, as he feels sure he will, you mustcongratulate him very heartily--exceptionally so. Make a fuss over him,so to speak. He'll be club champion, and it will seem natural for you tobubble over about it."

  "But why should I, Viola? I haven't done anything to merit hisdispleasure."

  "I know. But you remember what a touch-fire he is. He's always held thatbusiness matter against you, though I'm sure you had nothing to do withit. Now, if he wins, and I hope he will, you can take advantage of it toget on better terms with him, and--"

  "Well, I'm willing to be friends, you know that, Viola. But I can'tpretend--I never could!"

  "You're stubborn, Harry!" and Viola pouted.

  "Well, perhaps I am. When I know I'm right--"

  "Couldn't you forget it just once?"

  "I don't see how!"

  "Oh, you provoke me! But if you won't you won't, I suppose. Only itwould be such a good chance--"

  "Well, I'll see him after the match, Viola. I'll do my best to bedecent."

  "You must go a little farther than that, Harry. Dad will be all workedup if he wins, and he'll want a fuss made over him. It will be the verychance for you."

  "All right-I'll do my best," murmured Bartlett. And then a servant cameup to summon him to the telephone.

  Viola was not left long alone, for Captain Poland was watching her fromthe tail of his eye, and he was at her side before Harry Bartlett wasout of sight.

  "Perhaps you'd like to come for a little spin with me, Miss Carwell,"said the captain. "I just heard that they've postponed the cup-winners'match an hour; and unless you want to sit around here--"

  "Come on!" cried Viola, impulsively. "It's too perfect a day to sitaround, and I'm only interested in my father's match."

  There was another reason why Viola Carwell was glad of the chance to goriding with Captain Poland just then. She really was a little provokedwith Bartlett's stubbornness, or what she called that, and she thoughtit might "wake him up," as she termed it, to see her with the only manwho might be classed as his rival.

  As for herself, Viola was not sure whether or not she would admitCaptain Poland to that class. There was time enough yet.

  And so, as Bartlett went in to the telephone, to answer a call that hadcome most inopportunely for him, Viola Carwell and Captain Poland sweptoff along the pleasantly shaded country road.

  Left to herself, for which just then she was thankful, Minnie Webbdrifted around until she met LeGrand Blossom.

  "What's the matter, Lee?" she asked him in a low voice, and he smiledwith his eyes at her, though his face showed no great amount of jollity."You're as solemn as though every railroad stock listed had dropped tenpoints just after you bought it."

  "No, it isn't quite as bad as that," he said, as he fell into step besideher, and they strolled off on one of the less-frequented walks.

  "I thought everything was going so well with you. Has there been anyhitch in the partnership arrangement?" asked Minnie.

  "No, not exactly."

  "Have you lost money?"

  "No, I can't say that I have."

  "Then for goodness' sake what is it? Do I have to pump you like anewspaper reporter?" and Minnie Webb laughed, showing a perfect set ofteeth that contrasted well against the dark red and tan of her cheeks.

  "Oh, I don't know that it's anything much," replied LeGrand Blossom.

  "It's something!" insisted Minnie.

  "Well, yes, it is. And as it'll come out, sooner or later, I might aswell tell you now," he said, with rather an air of desperation, and asthough driven to it. "Have you heard any rumors that Mr. Carwell is infinancial difficulties?"

  "Why, no! The idea! I always thought he had plenty of money. Not amulti-millionaire, of course, but better off financially than any oneelse in Lakeside."

  "He was once; but he won't be soon, if he keeps up the pace he's set oflate," went on LeGrand Blossom, and his voice was gloomy.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, things don't look so well as they did. He was very foolish tobuy that ten-thousand-dollar yacht so soon after spending even more thanthat on this red, white and blue monstrosity of his!"

  "You don't mean to tell me he's bought a yacht, too?"

  "Yes, the Osprey that Colonel Blakeson used to sport up and down thecoast in. Paid a cool ten thousand for it, though if he had left it tome I could have got it for eight, I'm sure."

  "Well, twenty thousand dollars oughtn't to worry Mr. Carwell, I shouldthink," returned Minnie.

  "It wouldn't have, a year ago," answered LeGrand. "But he's been on thewrong side of the market for some time. Then, too, something new hascropped up about that old Bartlett deal."

  "You mean the one over which Harry's uncle and Mr. Carwell had such afuss?"

  "Yes. Mr. Carwell's never got over that. And there are rumors that helost quite a sum in a business transaction with Captain Poland."

  "Oh, dear!" sighed the girl. "Isn't business horrid! I'm glad I'm not aman. But what is this about Captain Poland?"

  "I don't know? haven't heard it all yet, as Mr. Carwell doesn't tell meeverything, even if he has p
lanned to take me into partnership with him.But now I'm not so keen on it."

  "Keen on what, Lee?" and Minnie Webb leaned just the least bit nearer tohis side.

  "On going into partnership with a man who spends money so lavishly whenhe needs all the ready cash he can lay his hands on. But don't mentionthis to any one, Minnie. If it got out it might precipitate matters, andthen the whole business would tumble down like a house of cards. As itis, I may be able to pull him out. But I've put the soft pedal on thepartnership talk."

  "Has Mr. Carwell mentioned it of late?"

  "No. All he seems to be interested in is this golf game that may makehim club champion. But keep secret what I have told you."

  Minnie Webb nodded assent, and they turned back toward the clubhouse,for they had reached a too secluded part of the grounds.

  Meanwhile, Viola Carwell was not enjoying her ride with Captain Polandas much as she had expected she would. As a matter of fact it had beenundertaken largely to cause Bartlett a little uneasiness; and as thecar spun on she paid less and less attention to the captain.

  Seeing this, the latter changed his mind concerning something he hadfully expected to speak to Viola about that day, if he got the chance.

  Captain Poland was genuinely in love with Viola, and he had reasonto feel that she cared for him, though whether enough to warrant adeclaration of love on his part was hard to understand.

  "But I won't take a chance now," mused the captain, rather moodily; andthe talk descended to mere monosyllables on the part of both of them."I must see Carwell and have it out with him about that insurance deal.Maybe he holds that against me, though the last time I talked with himhe gave me to understand that I'd stand a better show than Harry. Imust see him after the game. If he wins he'll be in a mellow humor,particularly after a bottle or so. That's what I'll do."

  The captain spun his car up in front of the clubhouse and helped Violaout. "I think we are in plenty of time for your father's match," heremarked.

  "Yes," she assented. "I don't see any of the veterans on the field yet,"and she looked across the perfect course. "I'll go to look for dad andwish him luck. He always wants me to do that before he starts his medalplay. See you again, Captain;" and with a friendly nod she left thesomewhat chagrined yachtsman.

  When Captain Poland had parked his car he took a short cut along a paththat led through a little clump of bushes. Midway he heard voices. Inan instant he recognized them as those of Horace Carwell and HarryBartlett. He heard Bartlett say:

  "But don't you see how much better it would be to drop it all--to havenothing more to do with her?"

  "Look here, young man, you mind your own business!" snapped Mr. Carwell."I know what I'm doing!"

  "I haven't any doubt of it, Mr. Carwell; but I ventured to suggest?"went on Bartlett.

  "Keep your suggestions to yourself, if you please. I've had about all Iwant from you and your family. And if I hear any more of your impudenttalk--"

  Then Captain Poland moved away, for he did not want to hear any more.

  In the meantime Viola hurried back to the clubhouse, and forced herselfto be gay. But, somehow, a cloud seemed to have come over her day.

  The throng had increased, and she caught sight, among the press, of JeanForette, their chauffeur.

  "Have you seen my father since he arrived, Jean?" asked Viola.

  "Oh, he is somewhere about, I suppose," was the answer, and it was givenin such a surly tone with such a churlish manner that Viola flushed withanger and bit her lips to keep back a sharp retort.

  At that moment Minnie Webb strolled past. She had heard the question andthe answer.

  "I just saw your father going out with the other contestants, Viola,"said Minnie Webb, "for they were friends of some years' standing. Ithink they are going to start to play. I wonder why they say the Frenchare such a polite race," she went on, speaking lightly to cover Viola'sconfusion caused by the chauffeur's manner. "He was positivelyinsulting."

  "He was," agreed Viola. "But I shouldn't mind him, I suppose. He doesnot like the new machine, and father has told him to find another placeby the end of the month. I suppose that has piqued him."

  While there were many matches to be played at the Maraposa Club thatday, interest, as far as the older members and their friends wereconcerned, was centered in that for cup-winners. These constituted thebest players--the veterans of the game--and the contest was sure to beinteresting and close.

  Horace Carwell was a "sport," in every meaning of the term. Though a manwell along in his forties, he was as lithe and active as one ten yearsyounger. He motored, fished, played golf, hunted, and of late had addedyachting to his amusements. He was wealthy, as his father had beenbefore him, and owned a fine home in New York, but he spent a large partof every year at Lakeside, where he might enjoy the two sports he lovedbest-golfing and yachting.

  Viola was an only child, her mother having died when she was aboutsixteen, and since then Mr. Carwell's maiden sister had kept watch andward over the handsome home, The Haven. Viola, though loving her fatherwith the natural affection of a daughter and some of the love she hadlavished on her mother, was not altogether in sympathy with the sportingproclivities of Mr. Carwell.

  True, she accompanied him to his golf games and sailed with him orrode in his big car almost as often as he asked her. And she thoroughlyenjoyed these things. But what she did not enjoy was the rather toojovial comradeship that followed on the part of the men and women herfather associated with. He was a good liver and a good spender, and heliked to have about him such persons-men "sleek and fat," who if theydid not "sleep o' nights," at least had the happy faculty of turningnight into day for their own amusement.

  So, in a measure, Viola and her father were out of sympathy, as had beenhusband and wife before her; though there had never been a whisper ofreal incompatibility; nor was there now, between father and daughter.

  "Fore!"

  It was the warning cry from the first tee to clear the course for thestart of the cup-winners' match. In anticipation of some remarkableplaying, an unusually large gallery would follow the contestants around.The best caddies had been selected, clubs had been looked to withcare and tested, new balls were got out, and there was much subduedexcitement, as befitted the occasion.

  Mr. Carwell, his always flushed face perhaps a trifle more like a mildsunset than ever, strolled to the first tee. He swung his driver withfreedom and ease to make sure it was the one that best suited him, andthen turned to Major Wardell, his chief rival. "Do you want to take anymore?" he asked meaningly.

  "No, thank you," was the laughing response. "I've got all I can carry.Not that I'm going to let you beat me, but I'm always a stroke or twooff in my play when the sun's too bright, as it is now. However, I'm notcrawling."

  "You'd better not!" declared his rival. "As for me, the brighter the sunthe better I like it. Well, are we all ready?"

  The officials held a last consultation and announced that play mightstart. Mr. Carwell was to lead.

  The first hole was not the longest in the course, but to place one's ballon fair ground meant driving very surely, and for a longer distance thanmost players liked to think about. Also a short distance from the teewas a deep ravine, and unless one cleared that it was a handicap hard toovercome.

  Mr. Carwell made his little tee of sand with care, and placed the ballon the apex. Then he took his place and glanced back for a moment towhere Viola stood between Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett. Somethinglike a little frown gathered on the face of Horace Carwell as he notedthe presence of Bartlett, but it passed almost at once.

  "Well, here goes, ladies and gentlemen!" exclaimed Mr. Carwell in ratherloud tones and with a free and easy manner he did not often assume."Here's where I bring home the bacon and make my friend, the major, eathumble pie."

  Viola flushed. It was not like her father to thus boast. On the contraryhe was usually what the Scotch call a "canny" player. He never predictedthat he was going to win, except, perhaps, to his close fri
ends. But hewas now boasting like the veriest schoolboy.

  "Here I go!" he exclaimed again, and then he swung at the ball with hiswell-known skill.

  It was a marvelous drive, and the murmurs of approbation that greeted itseemed to please Mr. Carwell.

  "Let's see anybody beat that!" he cried as he stepped off the tee togive place to Major Wardell.

  Mr. Carwell's white ball had sailed well up on the putting green of thefirst hole, a shot seldom made at Maraposa.

  "A few more strokes like that and he'll win the match," murmuredBartlett.

  "And when he does, don't forget what I told you," whispered Viola tohim.

  He found her hand, hidden at her side in the folds of her dress, andpressed it. She smiled up at him, and then they watched the major swingat his ball.

  "It's going to be a corking match," murmured more than one member of thegallery, as they followed the players down the field.

  "If any one asked me, I should say that Carwell had taken just a littletoo much champagne to make his strokes true toward the last hole," saidTom Sharwell to Bruce Garrigan.

  "Perhaps," was the admission. "But I'd like to see him win. And, forthe sake of saying something, let me inform you that in Africa last yearthere were used in nose rings alone for the natives seventeen thousandfour hundred and twenty-one pounds of copper wire. While for anklets--"

  "I'll buy you a drink if you chop it off short!" offered Sharwell.

  "Taken!" exclaimed Garrigan, with a grin.

  The cup play went on, the four contestants being well matched, and theshots duly applauded from hole to hole.

  The turn was made and the homeward course began, with the excitementincreasing as it was seen that there would be the closest possiblefinish, between the major and Mr. Carwell at least.

  "What's the row over there?" asked Bartlett suddenly, as he walked alongwith Viola and Captain Poland.

  "Where?" inquired the captain.

  "Among those autos. Looks as if one was on fire."

  "It does," agreed Viola. "But I can see our patriotic palfrey, so Iguess it's all right. There are enough people over there, anyhow. But itis something!"

  There was a dense cloud of smoke hovering over the place where some ofthe many automobiles were parked at one corner of the course. Still itmight be some one starting his machine, with too much oil being burnedin the cylinders.

  "Now for the last hole!" exulted Mr. Carwell, as they approached theeighteenth. "I've got you two strokes now, Major, and I'll have youfour by the end of the match."

  "I'm not so sure of that," was the laughing and good-natured reply.

  There was silence in the gallery while the players made ready for thelast hole.

  There was a sharp impact as Mr. Carwell's driver struck the little whiteball and sent it sailing in a graceful curve well toward the last hole.

  "A marvelous shot!" exclaimed Captain Poland. "On the green again!Another like that and he'll win the game!"

  "And I can do it, too!" boasted Carwell, who overheard what was said.

  The others drove off in turn, and the play reached the final stage ofputting. Viola turned as though to go over and see what the trouble wasamong the automobiles. She looked back as she saw her father stoop tosend the ball into the little depressed cup. She felt sure that hewould win, for she had kept a record of his strokes and those of hisopponents. The game was all but over.

  "I wonder if there can be anything the matter with our car?" musedViola, as she saw the smoke growing denser. "Dad's won, so I'm goingover to see. Perhaps that chauffeur--"

  She did not finish the sentence. She turned to look back at her fatheronce more, and saw him make the putt that won the game at the lasthole. Then, to her horror she saw him reel, throw up his hands, and fallheavily in a heap, while startled cries reached her ears.

  "Oh! Oh! What has happened?" she exclaimed, and deadly fear clutched ather heart--and not without good cause.