The Body in the Bunker E-Book

Herbert Adams

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 367

Beschreibung

The Body in the Bunker by Herbert Adams is a gripping mystery that unravels when a body is found in the most unlikely of places—a golf course bunker. What begins as a peaceful game quickly turns into a deadly puzzle as the discovery shocks the local community. The investigation reveals a web of lies, hidden motives, and long-buried secrets. As the detective on the case digs deeper, the list of suspects grows, but so do the risks. In this taut and clever whodunit, every clue inches closer to uncovering a sinister plot. Can the truth be found before more lives are at stake?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

The Body in the Bunker

CHAPTER ONE: THE FLAG COMPETITION

CHAPTER TWO: TWO GIRLS

CHAPTER THREE: THE WINDMILL

CHAPTER FOUR: THE QUARREL

CHAPTER FIVE: THE BODY IN THE BUNKER

CHAPTER SIX: INSPECTOR LEE

CHAPTER SEVEN: COMING AND GOING

CHAPTER EIGHT: WHO SAW HIM LAST

CHAPTER NINE: A LONG LANE

CHAPTER TEN: FLIGHT?

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THEOBALD SQUARE

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE COMMITTEE DOES NOTHING

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BAG SNATCHING

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE VEILED WOMAN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: WHO IS SYLVIA?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: ADMISSIONS

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ALLIES

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: BILL'S RETURN

CHAPTER NINETEEN: FACING THE MUSIC

CHAPTER TWENTY: NO ALTERNATIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: CONSTANCE WARWICK

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE BAG

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: DISCOVERIES

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: THE HAMMER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: SMASH!

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: INSPECTOR LEE WAITS

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: FINGER-PRINTS

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: CAN FINGER-PRINTS LIE?

CHAPTER TWENTY.NINE: SERGEANT CHANCE

CHAPTER THIRTY: THE PLUNDER

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: PROOF?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: THE CAPTAIN'S PRIZE

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

The Body in the Bunker

By: Herbert Adams

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE: THE FLAG COMPETITION

"SAY what you like," protested Farmer, "it isn't playing the game."

"What isn't?" asked Neave.

"Deliberately missing a foot putt so that your partner has to sink it and you get the next drive. Escott says it's permissible and I say it's jolly near cheating."

"I thought the partners drove at alternate holes," said Bruce.

"Not in a flag competition," explained Farmer. "You carry straight on. So when one holes out the other has the drive. The fellow purposely missed his putt. Owned up to it. The girl sank it and he got the next tee shot. Decent people don't do such things."

"Who did it?" asked someone else.

"Hann. He was partnering Vera King. Not her fault. I was playing with Maureen Hobart and at the fourteenth both balls were a foot from the pin. I holed out, but Hann deliberately missed. Played to the side so that his partner had to play again."

"Cost them a stroke," said Major Escott.

"Yes, but it gave him the drive at 'Hell.' Put it on the green and they got a three."

"What happened to you?" asked Broughley.

"Maureen went into the far bunker--into a heel mark too. Took us three to get out. Down in six. But what happened to us is not the point. I say it was a dirty dodge. It isn't cricket." Henry Farmer undoubtedly felt very much annoyed about it.

"There you are wrong," declared Escott. "Whether it is golf or not, it most certainly is cricket. The better player runs one instead of two at the end of the over to keep the bowling. Do you blame him?"

"Not quite the same," said Dean. "At cricket you are out to make a high score and at golf a low one. If all my centuries at golf had been made at cricket I should be near the top of the averages! I agree with Farmer that to miss a putt purposely is not playing the game."

"But it's the fellow's own loss," remarked Broughley.

"Not when it's done deliberately to get the next drive," said Farmer.

"Have you never played short at a bunker for safety?" demanded Escott. "What's the difference?"

"A great deal. You play short at a bunker to make sure of doing the hole in as few as possible. You hope to save something with the next shot."

"Pretty much what Hann did," remarked Neave.

"To miss deliberately violates the whole principle of a mixed foursome," asserted Farmer.

"You might say it violates the principle of bridge," remarked someone else, "to trump your partner's ace. But it may be a sound thing if you want the lead."

"Bridge is a matter of tricks," retorted Farmer. "Golf should not be."

Others joined in the wrangle and got quite warm about it. The smoking room of the Barrington Golf Club, like many others of its kind, was rather pleased when some novel point arose in connection with the game and could be discussed from all angles. Several of the members agreed with Farmer that his opponent had violated the spirit of the game, while others held with Major Escott that it was a matter of tactics and perfectly permissible.

"What is your opinion, Ross?" asked Broughley at last, turning to the man at his side who had been listening in silence to the argument. "You are a lawyer so you ought to be able to tell us."

"Rather depends which party briefs me," laughed Ross. He was a big fellow, dark, with shrewd, observant eyes and a mouth lined by smiles. But it could be stiff and severe enough on occasion. "I suppose each pair has a handicap and you see who can carry the flag furthest?"

"That's right," said Farmer. "Bogey is seventy-two. My partner and I got eight strokes and had to go as far as possible in eighty. Hann is scratch and his partner sixteen, so they also got eight. We were all playing well and there was nothing between us except at 'Hell.' We picked up the flag at the eighteenth and at the twentieth my partner and I had still one shot to go and they had two. I hit a beauty--two hundred yards. No--it was more than that. Must have been at least--"

"Stop!" said Dean. "That, anyway, breaks the rules of golf."

"What do you mean?"  demanded Farmer.

"The rule distinctly says you must not do anything to improve a lie!"

There was a general laugh and Farmer looked annoyed at the frivolous interruption of his story.

"Anyway," he said testily, "I outdrove Hann, but Vera had the extra shot and put it fifty yards past us. The trick at the fourteenth and our trouble in 'Hell' just made the difference. No one is likely to go further. I don't care a bit about the prize, but for a competition to be won in such a way is not sporting."

"Well," smiled Ross, "I have to pretend to know something of the laws of England, but I never pose as an expert on the laws of golf. Yet, honestly, I cannot see where your grouse comes in. You all get strokes and have to use them to the best advantage. If you think it will pay you to throw one away on the chance of making good later--why not? Suppose your opponent, when he got the drive, had put his partner into 'Hell,' you would have laughed at him--gave away a shot and got nothing for it. As it was his policy paid. Nothing unfair in it. He took a chance and it came off."

Farmer still looked dissatisfied and, to end the matter amicably, Ross went on:

"I always remember your 'Hell,' though I have only played here once before. One of your chaps made a very neat remark. It was a four-ball. Broughley was my partner and was the only one of us to stop on the green. Our opponents called it a fluke. 'No,' said Broughley, 'I used my head.' 'Oh,' said one of the others, 'I never take wood at a short hole.'"

Again there was a general laugh; golfers are easily amused; but Farmer was unappeased. "Had it not been for that," he muttered, "we should have led the field."

"That is where you are wrong, old son. The flag is now planted a hundred yards past where you left it."

A newcomer, Philip Chase, made the announcement as he walked towards the seats occupied by Broughley and Ross.

"Who by?" asked several voices.

"Crosbie and Miss Escott. Congratulations, Escott. Your girl played a wonderful game."

"Must have done," said the major. "Never does when she partners me. Crosbie must have been pretty hot too."

"He was, and my partner and I kept them going. But they sunk an approach at the eighteenth and so gained one on us." Then he turned to Broughley and his friend. "Hullo, Ross, you down again? That's good. You must give me another game." He dropped his voice to a whisper and added, "Come over here. I want to tell you about it."

Something in his manner made them think he meant more than the recapitulation of the events of the round, though many men can make a long story of that! They followed him across the room.

"Have a drink," he added.

To this there was even less objection and they took their glasses out to the veranda.

"It was the queerest game ever," he murmured as they sat down in a quiet corner. "Who did you draw for partner, Broughley?"

"Miss Anderson. We ended on the seventeenth green."

"I drew Miss Wilton. A friend of yours, isn't she?

"She is," said Bill.

"Well, Crosbie drew Maidie Escott. He told me before we went out that he didn't know Miss Wilton. So on the first tee I introduced them. They stared at one another as though they had both been stung. Then they said 'How d'ye do,' in the coldest possible manner and, believe me, those were the only words they spoke on the whole round."

"I don't blame anyone," said Broughley, "for not being chatty with Crosbie."

"Maybe not," returned Chase, "but there's more to it than that. At the start it looked as though for some reason they were both going to play atrociously. Crosbie had the first drive and he missed it altogether. Think of that for the fancied man for the captain's prize! I hit a decent one, but Miss Wilton did an air shot for our second. Looked pretty grim. They each did another foozle and then there was a change. Pulled themselves together and played about as perfect golf as I have ever seen. Maidie was jolly good and it was the toughest game I've known for ages. And hardly a word spoken all the way."

"Concentration," said Ross. "You should try it. What happened at 'Hell’?”

"Crosbie had to drive against Miss Wilton. Got a beauty, two yards from the pin. He gave her a devilish look. "Beat that if you can!" He didn't say it aloud, but one felt it. And she did beat it. Hers stopped dead and we both got two's."

"That's a help," said Ross. "Farmer was very sore over his six."

"Didn't you talk at all?" asked Broughley. "Rather unlike you!"

"Somehow one couldn't talk much. I asked my partner if she had met Crosbie before and she said No. But the way she snapped it out seemed to mean a lot. If you put that question to a girl in the ordinary way she says, 'No, where does he come from? What is he? He seems very pleasant.' or something like that. But Miss Wilton said nothing at all. Yet I would swear she knows all she wants to about him."

"And that probably is too much," said Broughley. "What had Crosbie to say?"

"I asked him the same thing--had he met her before? He looked at me as though I was a rude little boy and barked, 'No. Why do you ask?' I told him I had thought from his manner they recognised one another. 'She reminded me of someone.' Then he shut up and that was that. After the bad start they played as fiercely as they knew how. Each determined to outdo the other."

"How did it end?" asked Broughley.

"As I told you, thanks to their birdie at the eighteenth, making three in all to our two, they had a stroke to the good. Miss Wilton played our last shot at the twentieth. A peach, level with the flag where Farmer's lot left it. Crosbie was not quite so good, but Maidie had one to go and finished just short of the green."

"What happened then?"

"Miss Wilton took Maidie's arm, said what a wonderful game she had played and walked off with her. Just nodded to me and took no notice of Crosbie."

"It certainly was queer," commented Broughley, stubbing out his cigarette. He hesitated a moment and then went on, "Miss Wilton is a friend of mine, as you say, and I should be grateful, Chase, if you wouldn't tell anyone else about it. Most likely there is nothing in it, but anyway we don't want to start a lot of silly talk. I'll ask her if she knows anything of Crosbie. Most of us think him a bit of a bounder and she may have heard tales about him. Be a good chap and leave it till we know more.

"Silence is my second name," said Chase, "and thirst my third, what about another?"

CHAPTER TWO: TWO GIRLS

BILL BROUGHLEY was a bachelor of simple tastes and ample means. He was massively built and no one would have called him brainy. He was honest, good-hearted and hated worry. His father had been the proprietor of a big printing business and when, on his death, it was sold to a combine, Bill invested the proceeds in securities that produced a sure and comfortable income, even after the government had lopped off its very substantial share. It was an arrangement, free from care, that entirely suited his unambitious soul.

Fond of golf and of bridge, life at such places as the Dormy House of the Barrington Golf Club suited him very well indeed for a good portion of the year. He was nearing forty and had felt no urge to matrimony. He invited men friends from town to stay with him and play with him and that seemed to satisfy his needs. It was only lately that he had begun to ask himself if he was not missing a good deal.

Simon Ross, a barrister considerably younger than himself, had met him some years before on a cruising holiday. Similar tastes had led to a firm friendship. They had played a good deal of golf together, though only once before at that course. Now Simon had arrived on a Saturday afternoon, too late for a game, but with the intention of playing on the morrow.

"They do you very well here," said the visitor appreciatively, as they sat at dinner.

"Yes, but I am not sure it was not jollier in the old days, before they stuck up this Dormy House."

"It's a rattling good course," laughed Simon. "You and your pals wanted to keep it to yourselves. I don't blame you, but it can't be done when you are so near town."

"I suppose not," said Broughley. "All the snug little pubs get ousted sooner or later by the showy hotels where life is about as restful as a railway terminus. And you get a different class of member. The atmosphere changes. Even the old members alter."

"How do you mean?"

"It's not easy to explain. I daresay it happens in most clubs. Things run smoothly for years, then something crops up and the devil is let loose. Peaceful people get quarrelsome, old differences are remembered and finally there is an almighty row."

"The gas has to explode. Has there been anything of that sort here?" Simon was sipping some excellent Chambertin. The changes had certainly not affected the cellar.

"Very much so. Didn't I tell you about our row over the election of the captain a few months ago?"

"I think you said there was a contest. I never understood it was anything serious."

"It was all hell and fury," said Bill. "There had never been an opposed election before, so that alone was a bit of a sensation. The committee nominated a man called Knight, but a certain section rebelled and put up Crosbie, the fellow Chase was talking about this afternoon. Every one got very excited."

"Why did they object to Knight?"

"Nothing against him personally, they said, but the newer members declared there was too much wire-pulling, that everything was run by a clique and it was time the real wishes of the club were expressed. The usual sort of clap-trap about the old gang keeping everything to themselves."

"Is Crosbie popular?"

"Not particularly. He has only belonged for about two years, but someone nominated him. Feeling ran pretty high and a lot of fellows said they would support him as a matter of principle."

"What happened?"

"The committee was rather high-handed. They talked of resigning in a body if their man was not elected. The Crosbie-ites said that was either bluff or a bid for dictatorship."

"World politics in a golf club," said Simon.

"In a concentrated form. You would hardly credit the excitement it created."

"People jeer at a storm in a tea-cup," smiled his friend, "but I always think life in a tea-cup would be precious dull if there were no storms."

"There is that. A lot of our resident members, retired service men and the like, have too little to occupy their minds, so a thing of this sort becomes almost as big as the great war itself. At last the committee, to save the situation, got General Cairn, the retiring captain, to accept nomination for a further year."

"That made three candidates?"

"Knight withdrew but Crosbie did not. Like the pushful fool he is, he persisted to the end. At the general meeting Cairn, who is really a splendid old boy, made a topping speech. He said they were all good sportsmen and at heart were all equally anxious for the success of the club. If their vote went against him, let every one accept the decision in the same spirit of good fellowship as he would, and continue to do their best to make things as happy as in the past. Then he said, in case it should seem he had abused his privilege as retiring captain in speaking as he had done, he would ask Mr. Crosbie to address them before the vote was taken."

"That was sporting anyway."

"Yes. If Crosbie had responded in the right spirit he would have been thought no end of, and would most likely have been elected next year without opposition. As it was he chose to attack Cairn. Said he was a ha'penny Hitler and wanted to crush independent opinion."

"Then what?"

"Every one was disgusted. It seemed so petty after what Cairn had said. A poll was taken and Crosbie hardly got a vote."

"Did that end the trouble?

"Far from it," said Broughley. "The Crosbie section is small but active. Crosbie entered as usual for the captain's prize, although some of us did not expect him to, and that looks like ending in blood!"

"How so? You are still in it, aren't you?

"I am. Sixteen qualify and I have managed to get into the last four. So have Crosbie and Knight. They meet in the semi-final, so you can guess how they feel about it."

"Whom do you meet?"

"Don't know yet. Hann, the fellow who annoyed Farmer at 'Hell' this afternoon, meets Sladen. Then I tackle the winner, probably Sladen."

"When will your match be?"

"Sometime next week-end, I expect."

"I must come down to caddie for you," laughed Ross.

"Come down by all means. I'd love you to."

"All right. And I'll come again for the final--when you meet the survivor of the Crosbie-Knight duel."

"If I survive mine!" said Broughley.

After dinner they played bridge. They believed in the same system and, what is more, they understood each other's method of applying it. As they cut together three times they had quite a profitable evening. It was not until they were having a last drink, before going to bed, that Simon referred to a matter which had occurred earlier in the day.

"By the way," he said, "what did you make of the story that man Chase told us? I mean of Crosbie and the girl who would not speak?

"It was very odd," said Broughley. "Chase may have imagined it, though I hardly think that likely."

"Since Crosbie was such a prominent member," suggested Ross, "surely the girl must have known him, unless of course she has only just joined."

"She has belonged for about four months, but ladies are not allowed to play at the week-ends, except in mixed foursomes. So those who can play during the week leave Saturdays and Sundays to the men. Fellows like Crosbie, who only come down for week-ends, never meet the mid-weekers."

"Chase said she was rather a friend of yours?"

"She is a friend of mine," said Broughley seriously. "I would like you to meet her. I doubt if you have ever seen a more beautiful woman."

"Then I certainly must meet her. She evidently plays a good game of golf. Is she young?"

"She might be thirty, though I doubt it. I think she must have had trouble. Do you remember the windmill by the sixteenth tee?"

"Rather; one of your landmarks. The only thing visible from the gates of Hell!"

"She lives in that windmill. Has adapted it wonderfully and made the most delightful home of it."

"Quite a novel idea. Sounds draughty somehow. Is she eccentric?"

"Not at all, but very artistic. You would be surprised how snug it is. If you like, I'll take you there to-morrow to tea."

"I'd love it," said Simon. He knew that Bill wanted to go. When a man of forty falls in love for the first time he gets it badly! Curiosity to see the young woman his friend thought so beautiful was increased at the prospect of visiting her windmill home.

In the morning they had a single, playing behind Hann and Crosbie. As they caught them up on two or three tees, Simon had the opportunity of noting the two men whose play the day before had occasioned so much comment.

Hann, whose purposely missed putt had so infuriated Farmer, was slight and fully six feet in height. He was sprucely attired in gay plus fours with bright tassels to his stockings. His fair skin and his light waxed moustache hardly suggested the vigour of his play.

"Slow going," Simon remarked to him the second time they caught up.

"Yes," said Hann pleasantly. "Knight and Farmer are two holes ahead. They always hold up the course. If I stared at my putts as long as they do I should go blob-eyed and miss them altogether."

Crosbie grunted and said nothing. He was years older than his companion, about the same height but of much heavier build. He had a parchment-coloured face with a hard, resolute mouth. The ball travelled when he hit it; it simply had to. Simon wondered if his grim silence in the previous day's mixed foursome was his natural manner and not so strange as Chase had thought. The fact that he was still playing there after his defeat in the election for a captain showed that he was not unduly sensitive and probably cared little for the opinion of others.

Bill and Simon, each handicap three, were having a ding-dong battle. When, in spite of delays, they reached “Hell” they were all square. At that infamous hole Simon's tee shot was nicely judged for strength, but it pitched on the footpath that led from the green and bounded into the chasm beyond. Broughley landed properly and he won the hole.

Climbing up to the sixteenth, Simon took special note of the windmill. It was less than fifty yards away, a narrow road dividing the land on which it stood from the boundary of the golf course. Circular in build, around it, about a third of the way up, there ran a gallery or balcony. This had evidently been strengthened, for two girls were sitting on it. When Broughley appeared they recognised him and waved their hands.

"Which of them is Miss Wilton?" asked Simon, as they drove off and strode after their balls.

"The taller, darker one. The other is Hazel Grantley, a cousin who lives with her. I believe they do for themselves, with the aid of a local woman for the heavy work."

"Did you know them before they came here?"

"No," said Broughley, "I rather thrust myself on them. The mill had been derelict for quite a while and one day I saw some work going on. I went across to see what was happening and found a girl in trousers and an overall doing some whitewashing.

“She told me she had bought it and was to live in it when the work was done. I asked if I could help. She said, 'Yes, move these trestles for me.' After that I dropped in most days and lent a hand."

"You mean those girls did the work themselves?"

"The interior work. Said they thoroughly enjoyed it. Made a jolly good job of it too. She is an artist by profession."

"Miss Wilton?"

"Yes."

"And the other one?"

"Writing a book, I believe."

The match ended all square. As they walked in for lunch Broughley said: "We shall probably be asked to make up a four-ball. If it's all the same to you, we will say we have this match to finish. Then we'll play fifteen holes, send the caddies back with the clubs and go across to the windmill for tea."

"O.K. for me if I shall not be in the way," smiled Simon.

"There are two girls," said Bill simply.

CHAPTER THREE: THE WINDMILL

A COMPLETE contrast were the two young women who had fashioned the windmill for their home. Sylvia Wilton was undoubtedly beautiful. Tall, dark, with an olive complexion, brown eyes, hair almost black and features of classic perfection--beautiful was the right and only word. Hazel Grantley was not beautiful at all, she was only pretty. But it was the sort of prettiness that affects some men more deeply than does the severer mould of stately grace.

She was just below middle height, with bright colouring and laughing eyes that sometimes looked more green than brown, and sometimes grey. She was quick in speech and movement and her expression  was so variable that it was fascinating to watch her. Such, at any rate, was Simon's feeling when he was introduced.

The mill certainly made a delightful home. The ground floor had been divided into three parts; a large lounge, a small dining-room, and a tiny kitchen. A spiral stairway led to two bedrooms that opened to the outside gallery, and above them was Sylvia's studio. The walls of the lounge were panelled and colour washed. The floor had some good rugs and the furniture was of old mahogany with chairs not too artistic for comfort.

"I do not think I have ever been inside a windmill before," said Simon as they started on some delicious home-made scones. "Where are the grindstones? Do the sails keep you awake at night?"

"What do you really know about windmills?" laughed Hazel.

"Nothing. Only that the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small."

"Ah!" cried the girl, "and who said that?"

"Well, really, I don't know. It isn't in the Bible, so I suppose it must be Shakespeare."

"More likely Tennyson or Browning," suggested Broughley.

"Or Byron or Pope," smiled the girl. "I don't suppose one person in five hundred knows."

"Tell us," said Simon.

"Curiously enough two poets used almost the same line at about the same time. Frederick Von Logau, who died in 1655, used the actual words you quoted and George Herbert, who died twenty years earlier, wrote 'God's mills grind slow but sure.'"

"But is it true?" asked Sylvia. "Do you really believe, whatever wrong is done, that justice eventually, overtakes the wrongdoer?"

Her voice was soft and sweet. She spoke seriously. It seemed to Ross that she put her question to him and he recalled Bill's phrase that she probably had faced trouble. It might well be true.

"In the law courts," he said, "we try to give the impression that the tag is true. Our methods are pretty slow but we grind on and on and as a rule justice is done in the end. But I suppose you don't quite mean that. There are lots of things that never go to trial. Whether, in those cases, nemesis or remorse pursues the wrongdoer, I cannot say. We can only hope so."

"We can only hope not!" flashed Hazel. "Has your life been so blameless that there are no little devils who might chase you to pay your just dues?"

"I refuse to confess in public," he replied. "Tell me some more about windmills."

"The oddest thing about them is that they are almost unknown to the poets. I defy anyone to give a quotation about windmills, except from Don Quixote. When the poets talk about mills they always refer to water-mills."

"Afraid I don't read poetry," said Bill.

"Miss Grantley is so learned, she must be right," laughed Simon.

"My reading," said the girl, "is like our mill, rather a sham. I was interested in windmills and so consulted a book of quotations and there was simply nothing about them. As to our grindstones, they and all the machinery are gone. The sails are fixed; so we are picturesque but useless."

"A good deal quieter that way. What happens when there is a gale?

"Nothing. You see, when they are working, windmills have a revolving cap so that the sails are sometimes one side and sometimes another. They have their boards rather like venetian blinds to catch the wind. We reefed ours and so the wind just rushes through."

"I am woefully ignorant about them. I shall look them up and ask some more questions when I come down next week--if I may?"

"You mean," she said, "you will try to show I am wrong. By all means!"

He laughed and turned to Sylvia.

"You and your partner won the second prize yesterday. You must have played a wonderful game. Chase was most enthusiastic."

"He played very well," she said quietly.

"He declared it was the grimmest game he had ever known. You and the opposing man just glared at each other and then did the most amazing shots."

"Mr. Chase is very imaginative," was her cold response.

"Three birdies in one round!" Simon exclaimed. "Sheer hard fact! And living so close to the course, I suppose you will get better and better."

"If we stay here."

"If you stay!" cried Bill. "You have made it the sweetest place possible. Surely you could not think of leaving it?"

"When a thing is done it's done. The charm is gone. It may be more fun to start something else." She rose abruptly, "If you have finished, let us go outside for a cigarette." It was apparent to them all she did not wish further discussion on that matter.

The mill had not much to boast of in the way of a garden. There was a fair-sized piece of ground and a thick shrubbery fringed it on the western side.

"A windmill couldn't encourage trees," Hazel explained to Ross as the other two strolled on ahead of them, "it wanted to be exposed to all the breezes that blow. Now we have finished inside we shall plant some roses and a lavender walk."

"Then you do not anticipate an immediate move?" he asked.

"No, and I don't think Sylvia does really. She loves it as much as I do."

"Was my remark about her glaring at her opponent yesterday lacking in tact?"

"Why should you think so?" She stopped and looked squarely at him. He saw that despite her laughing eyes she had a very determined little chin.

"I did not think so, or I should not have said it. I meant it in jest, but she seemed to take it seriously."

"Sylvia is often serious. Have you any hobbies besides golf?"

The wish to change the conversation was again obvious and he had no objection. He felt more interested in Hazel just then than in her cousin.

"I read a good deal," he said. "Bill tells me you are writing a book. What is it? A social satire or a crime story?"

"Neither. A historical novel."

"How jolly interesting. What is it to be called? What is the period? How do you get your material in an out-of-the-way place like this?"

"When you cross-examine your witnesses," she retorted, "do you ask one question at a time or do you fire off a volley?"

"I don't cross-examine my witnesses but the other fellow's," he laughed. "May I treat you as a friendly witness?"

"You may."

"Then, madam, what period in history are you honouring with the searchlight of your study?"

"Lady Jane Grey is my heroine, the nine days' queen. We have had a lot lately about the Tudor wenches; it is time she had another turn."

"What is your story to be called?"

"I have not yet decided. What can you suggest?"

"The witness must please answer questions, not ask them. Will it be published in your own name?"

"I fear the learned counsel is assuming something for which there is no warrant. It may never be published."

"I refuse to believe so ill of publishers," he said with due gravity. "I will amend my question. If and when it is published, what will be the author's name?"

"Hazel Grantley."

"Is that your full and complete name?"

"It is."

"Were you christened Hazel because of the colour of your eyes--look this way, please!--or did your eyes become like it because of your name?"

"I was never consulted. I thought Hazel was just a common little shrub."

"On the contrary, madam, the cultivated variety is rare and much sought after. As to the meaning of the name--"

"Well?"

"I am not sure of the derivation, but I think Hazel is something between an imp and an angel."

"Whereat," she said mockingly, "the witness curtsied and left the box."

"But tell me this," he persisted, "do you play golf?"

"Am I still on oath?"

"I want to know the truth."

"I do not play golf in the sense Sylvia does, but sometimes I hit a golf ball."

"That is splendid. When I come down next week to see Bill play his semi-final, cannot we have a foursome? You and I against him and Sylvia? Of course they will give us the proper strokes."

"You don't know what you are asking," she laughed.

"Perhaps not, but I am very keen on getting it!"

"Well--I am willing if the others are."

When Simon and Bill walked back together they went for some way in silence. Then Simon said: "What a delightful girl!"

"Yes," said his friend, "I knew you would think that, but she wasn't quite herself today."

Simon looked at him and smiled. "I meant Hazel."

"Oh--I was thinking of Sylvia. Something is worrying her. I wish I knew what it is."

CHAPTER FOUR: THE QUARREL

SIMON Ross was lucky. Every one in the Temple thought that. At the age when most young barristers, if not briefless, are finding the guineas few and far between, he had in a modest way begun to make his mark.

One of the assisting counsel in a case conducted by French Norcutt, the famous criminal K.C., the small part he had to play had been so well done that the great man had asked for him again. Again he satisfied his leader and more work followed. Solicitors who were not employing silk sent cases to him, and he was generally regarded as a coming man. Despite his growing responsibilities, he never quite lost his boyish sense of humour, and that perhaps was no inconsiderable asset.

He was looking forward eagerly to his next week-end at Barrington and as the Easter vacation was commencing he decided to stay on at the Dormy House for the whole time. He thought a good deal about what had happened during his last visit. It needed no keen insight to see that his friend Broughley was much attracted to Sylvia Wilton. And, he felt, a good thing too. Bill was an excellent fellow and was at an age when married life would be better for him than a Dormy House existence.

As to Sylvia, he had not quite made up his mind. There was no question as to her charm and beauty, but there was something mysterious about her. That question she had put to him--did be believe the adage as to the mills of God?--it arose naturally enough from their conversation; but there seemed meaning in the way she asked it. And her eyes, there was knowledge--suffering perhaps--in them. As Broughley had suggested, she had faced the world and tasted the cup of bitterness.

But he thought a good deal more about Hazel Grantley than either of the others. He even looked for references to windmills that he might prove her wrong. She seemed to be right. Water-mills and millstones were often met with, but not windmills. She was a bright young person and he was keenly looking forward to another battle of wits with her.

Yet nothing fell out as he had planned. In the first place he found that the match between Hann and Sladen had been postponed and therefore the semi-final between Broughley and the winner, which was the ostensible reason for his visit, could not be played. Then his friend, though cordial enough in his welcome, seemed worried and preoccupied. In that short week some change had come over him.

"Have Knight and Crosbie had their great duel?" asked Simon.

"Not yet. There is plenty of time."

"Why have not Hann and Sladen played?"

"Sladen has been away. Monday is the last day and they say be is coming back on Sunday night so that he can play the next morning."

"How are the ladies at the windmill? I suppose you have seen them?"

"Yes. They are all right."

"Our game with them stands for to-morrow?

"I think so."

Bill's manner was certainly odd. In the Saturday afternoon round he was far from doing himself justice, and in the evening there was a spot of bother in the cardroom that did not show him in a favourable light, although it appeared that others, too, were rather irritable.

The Dormy House had two cardrooms, one for men only and one for mixed play. Ross and Broughley went to the men's room and made a total of ten. So there were two tables and one to cut out at each. Crosbie was playing and was not having much luck, a fact that was reflected in his manners.

Broughley, having cut out at the other table, stood for a time behind him to watch his play. Apparently that annoyed him.

"Go away!"  he said rudely.

Everybody looked surprised but Bill, without a word, returned to his own table.

A little later the rubber ended and Crosbie, having lost heavily, blamed his partner, a man named Foster, for his calls.

"You might at least learn the rudiments of the game before you play here. Any old grandmother would do better!"

"Not if the cards were against her," said Farmer, one of the winning opponents.

"The cards!" retorted Crosbie. "I don't mind the cards. One can at least say nothing. I don't mind losing, but I can't play against the three of you!"

He spoke loudly and it was undoubtedly a relief to the others when he cut out and someone took his place. He got himself a strong whisky and sat down to watch them. His silence was certainly not as conspicuous as Simon had at one time thought. As the deals ended he commented sneeringly on the calls and the play, especially that of his previous partner, the luckless Foster.

"Shut up, Crosbie!" said Farmer. "It's not your funeral anyway."

Two rubbers were completed and there was another cut to let Crosbie in again.

"Don't cut," said Farmer. "I'll go. I might be his partner and that would be worse than playing against him."

"You mean you don't want to play with me?" demanded Crosbie.

"Just that," was the reply.

"I would like to know why?"

"I should think you could guess. I am surprised that anyone plays with you."

Crosbie, who was standing over him, raised his fist almost as though be would have struck him. The others stood up to separate them. The men from the second table, having also finished a game, came over to see what the trouble was.

"He says I am not fit to play with," cried Crosbie, who had certainly drunk more than was good for him. "It's a damned insult. I will report him to the committee and have him turned out."

It was Broughley who replied. As a rule he was a very peaceful man and far too easy-going to interfere in other people's quarrels. Simon was surprised at the fury in his eyes.

"You have been behaving all the evening, Crosbie, like the cad that you are. You ought to go to your room."

Certainly he should not have said it. The whole thing was discreditable. But he stood there in an attitude almost as threatening as that of Crosbie to Farmer. The others drew back in surprise, though probably most of them agreed with him.

"A cad, am I?" said Crosbie. "A nice thing to hear in a place like this before witnesses. A deliberate slander. I don't know what the committee will say. Friends of yours, I suppose, most of them. But this is something that concerns a higher authority. I wasn't even playing with you. You had better apologise or you'll hear more of it."

He spoke steadily. The insult had sobered him, or it may be his professional instincts had mastered his previous display of boorishness.

Broughley was pale but no less determined.

"I do not apologise. I said you behaved like a cad and I repeat it. A damned cad."

There was a tense moment of silence. As a visitor Simon did not quite know what to do. Had Bill gone mad? Of course he would stick by him whatever happened, but he thought it best not to interfere. Crosbie did not make any further show of violence. He seemed fully to have recovered his command of himself. He looked round at the company with something of a jeering smile.

"I ask you all to remember this. A slander entirely unprovoked. You will no doubt be called upon to testify to it at the right time and place."

With that he picked up his glass and drained it with an air almost of triumph and strode from the room.

Again there was a hush that was broken by the gentle voice of Hann who had been playing at Broughley's table. He was generally regarded as one of Crosbie's closest friends.

"I don't think you should have said that, Broughley. He is a solicitor, you know, and I expect it will mean trouble for all of us."

"Anyway it was true," declared Farmer.

Hann shrugged his shoulders. "Sometimes it is not wise to say all we think is true."

"I don't want to bring trouble to anyone else," said Bill. "No one but a cad would behave as he did. I am quite prepared to stand the racket for what I said."

"Don't be a fool, Broughley," urged Hann. "Let me tell him you didn't mean it, and clear it up.

"I meant every word of it," declared Bill hotly.

"Well, well," said Farmer, "he has gone. Let us start again."

Some of them did start again, but the incident had left an unpleasant feeling and rather earlier than usual they broke off.

"Did I act like a fool?" Broughley asked Simon as they took their final drink.

"Well, old chap, you certainly rushed in. Whether an angel would have feared to tread I do not know."

"But seriously?"