“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 tomorrow.”
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.
“This is Sir Clinton Driffield, Cressida,” he explained, as they met.
Sir Clinton had trained himself to observe minutely without betraying that he was doing so; and he had a habit of mentally docketing the results of his scrutiny. Mannerisms were the points which he studied with most attention. As Cressida Fleetwood came slowly towards them, his apparently casual glance took in mechanically the picture of a dark-haired girl still in her twenties, slim and graceful; but his attention fastened mainly on a faint touch of shyness which added to her charm; and in the expression of her eyes he believed he read something more uncommon. It seemed as though a natural frankness had been overlaid by a tinge of mistrust in the world.
“I hope I didn’t rob you of a game this morning by taking your husband away, Mrs. Fleetwood,” he said, as they turned up the path leading to the hotel.
Cressida reassured him at once.
“As it happened,” she explained, “I didn’t feel inclined to play today, so he was left at a loose end; and when you took pity on him, I was very glad to have my conscience cleared.”
“Well, it was lucky for me,” Sir Clinton answered. “The friend who’s staying with me just now wouldn’t come out this morning. He strained his foot slightly yesterday. So I was left in the lurch, and I was very fortunate in finding Mr. Fleetwood free to take me on.”
They entered the grounds of the hotel, and, at a turn in the path, Cressida Fleetwood bowed to a girl who passed their group. The newcomer was handsome rather than pretty; and there was a hint of hardness in her face which detracted a little from her charm. She was dressed with a finish rather unusual at that time of day in a golfing hotel; and her walk lacked the free swing characteristic of the athletic English girl. Written fairly plainly on her were the signs of a woman who has had to look after her own interests and who has not always come out a winner in the game.
When she had passed out of earshot, Cressida turned to her husband.
“That’s the French girl I told you about, Stanley—Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux. I found her in some difficulty or other at the hotel desk—her English isn’t quite perfect—so I helped her out a little.”
Stanley Fleetwood nodded without comment; and Sir Clinton had little difficulty in seeing that he had no desire for his wife to extend her acquaintance with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux. He could not help speculating as to the cause which had brought the Frenchwoman into this quiet backwater, where she had no amusements, apparently, and no acquaintances.
Before he had time to turn the matter over in his mind, however, his train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of a fresh figure.
“How’s the strain, squire?” he greeted the newcomer; and, as Wendover came up to the group, he introduced him to his two companions.
“I hope you enjoyed your round,” said Wendover, turning to Stanley Fleetwood. “Did he manage to work off any of his special expertise on you this morning?”
“He beat me, if that’s what you mean.”
“H’m! He beats me usually,” Wendover confessed. “I don’t mind being beaten by play; but I hate to be beaten by the rules.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Wendover? You seem to have a grievance,” Cressida asked, seeing a twinkle in Wendover’s eye.
“The fact is,” Wendover explained, “yesterday my ball rolled up against a large worm on the green and stopped there. I’m of a humane disposition, so I bent down to remove the worm, rather than putt across its helpless body. He objected, if you please, on the ground that one may not remove anything growing. I don’t know whether it was growing or not—it looked to me remarkably well grown for a worm, and had probably passed the growing age. But, when I urged that, he simply floored me by quoting a recent decision of the Royal and Ancient on the point.”
“If you play a game, you must play that game and not one you invent on the spur of the moment, squire,” Sir Clinton warned him, with no sign of sympathy in his tone. “Ignorance of the law is no excuse.”
“Hark to the chief constable!” Wendover complained. “Of course, his mind dotes on the legal aspect of things, and he’s used to keeping all sorts of rules and regulations in his head. His knowledge of the laws of golf is worth a couple of strokes on his handicap on any average round.”
Cressida glanced at Sir Clinton.
“Are you really a chief constable?” she asked. “Somehow you aren’t like the idea I had of chief constables.”
“I’m on holiday at present,” Sir Clinton answered lightly; “perhaps that makes a difference. But I’m sorry to fall below your ideal—especially in my own district. If you could tell me what you miss, perhaps I could get it. What’s wanted? Constabulary boots, or beetle-brows, or a notebook ready to hand, or a magnifying glass, or anything of that sort?”
“Not quite. But I thought you’d look more like an official somehow.”
“Well, in a way that’s a compliment. I’ve spent a fair part of my existence trying hard not to look like an official. I wasn’t born a chief constable, you
