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Title:      The Body in the Bunker
Author:     Herbert Adams
eBook No.:  0500761.txt
Edition:    1
Language:   English
Character set encoding:     Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit
Date first posted:          August 2005
Date most recently updated: October 2007

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Title:      The Body in the Bunker
Author:     Herbert Adams




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?"

"Crosbie talked of a slander action. If he brings one he will probably 
get a verdict, but whether it will do him much good is another matter."

"Every one knows he was drunk."

"A lot will depend on what the other fellows say. Some latitude in the 
matter of language is allowed in a quarrel. Abuse is not slander. His 
point will be that after the heat of battle he invited you to withdraw 
and instead you rubbed it in. Not only a cad, but a damned cad. Unfit, he 
will say, to associate with decent people."

"So he is! Did you expect me to apologise?"

"My dear fellow, I was speaking as a lawyer. Most people, I imagine, will 
sympathise with you. He may think better of it when he cools down. It 
won't do him much credit, however it goes. I am really more worried about 
your committee--if the Dormy House is under their jurisdiction. They can 
hardly refrain from taking some action if the matter is reported to 
them."

"Farmer is on the committee. They ought to back me up."

"Have you ever had any row with him before?" 

For a moment Bill was silent. Then he said: "No. We have hardly spoken. 
But I tell you, Simon, if you only knew--Never mind! Good-night."

Abruptly again he broke off, turned away and went to bed. When they met 
in the morning, although it was obvious that others were busily 
discussing the affair, there was no reference to it by themselves. Simon 
thought it was not for him to bring it up, and Bill's mood of silence 
continued. His friend was sure something was worrying him. Bill was not a 
good dissembler. But the afternoon might make things clearer.

They played their morning round and Simon noticed there were no waving 
hands from the windmill. The sky was dull and against its background 
there was something almost sinister in that still and silent sign of the 
cross. In the afternoon Bill did mention the matter that must have been a 
good deal in his mind. They were on their way to join Sylvia and Hazel on 
the first tee.

"I say, old man, I don't want you to tell the girls about that little 
squabble last night."

"Shouldn't dream of such a thing," said Simon cheerily. "Let us hope 
every one has forgotten it. How many strokes do Hazel and I receive?"

The handicap was adjusted but the game was not the happy affair he had 
anticipated. If Bill was preoccupied and worried, Sylvia was no less so. 
There were no signs of a quarrel. Bill was gently attentive to her, and 
she seemed to appreciate it, but there was no fun in either of them. Even 
Hazel seemed affected by the general air of constraint. Simon rallied her 
about it.

"What is on your mind? Lady Jane been misbehaving?"

"Lady Jane never misbehaved--not, anyway, in my book."

"That only answers part of my question."

"Aren't you too fond of asking questions? Surely you allow yourself a 
holiday sometimes. Shall I play this with an iron or a mashie?"

"The iron. Go for it."

She hit a creditable shot, carrying a bunker and landing on the green.

"Good shot! If I ask questions it is because I am so anxious to be 
helpful. Doesn't one of your poets say a worry shared is a worry halved?"

"Does he? I expect it depends a good deal on whom you share it with."

"That is why I am so handy. I expect to be here for ten days."

"Do you? If you sink that putt we shall be two up."

He did not sink it, but as Sylvia missed hers they won the hole all the 
same. Apart from that putt he was playing quite well--which, despite 
occasional flashes of brilliance, could not be said of any of the others. 
On the next fairway he began again:

"About that worry--"

"I have no worries. I want to attend to the game."

They won by four and three, but he did not feel very elated. A girl has 
every right to snub a man who, when they meet for the second time only, 
expects to share her confidences. Yet it was not exactly that. He had 
only been chaffing and she was well able to hold her own. He had the 
sensation of being shut out. These others, Sylvia, Bill and Hazel, were 
concerned in something and they did not wish to tell him what it was. He 
was a little puzzled; perhaps a little hurt; but he asked no more 
questions.

He was soon to understand things better. There was another incident later 
that night that he was also to remember and which was to cause him more 
anxiety than anything else.

After dinner Bill seemed restless. "I don't feel like playing cards," he 
said. "I think I'll read the paper. Do you mind?"

"Not a bit, old chap," said Simon. "I've booked here for a week or more, 
so don't regard me as a guest. I will be quite all right looking after 
myself."

Bill had the papers but he seemed to turn the leaves without finding 
anything to interest him. At last he got up.

"Think I'll go for a bit of a walk," he said.

Simon glanced at the clock. It was a little after nine.

"To the windmill?"  he smiled.

"No. At least--I don't know."

"As you so well put it, there are two girls."

"Yes, but--"

He went alone.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE BODY IN THE BUNKER

THERE were very few present when, on the Monday morning, a little before 
nine o'clock, Hann and Sladen started out on their great match. Hann had 
suggested the early hour as he said he must get back to town and would 
have preferred to play the previous day.

Stuart Sladen was an extraordinary being, both as a man and a golfer. He 
was tall, with a hairy face and a long beard. Such beards are rare in 
these days and his was the subject of much chaff from his friends. There 
was a legend that he once mis-hit a ball, that it ran up his club and 
was not found until he was combing his beard at bedtime. There was also a 
theory that, as he suffered at times from the golfer's most fatal error 
of lifting the head, he meant to grow that beard until he could put a 
foot on it and so keep his head down. He was an author, but his writings 
were too fantastic to be popular. He spoke with a rich Scottish accent 
and was really very well liked, as odd characters are when they can take 
banter good humouredly. As to his golf, Hann, who was scratch, had to 
give him eight strokes and it was generally doubted if he could do it. 
Sladen usually played round with only three clubs and carried his own 
dilapidated bag. On this occasion, the match being of such importance, he 
brought a fourth club, a prodigious mashie-niblick, and he employed a 
caddie. So the battle began.

The naming of the holes on a golf course is far more usual in Scotland 
than in England. It may be the mystic temperament of the Highlander, with 
his Wee Bogle, Witch's Bowster or Mountsion, enters further into the 
spirit of the game than the unimaginative southerner, content with the 
prosaic eighth, ninth and tenth. It may be, when the links were first 
laid out in the grim land beyond the Tweed, nature and legend had already 
done their part. Each hole was different and the names were already there 
or immediately suggested themselves. Water Kelpie, Trystin' Tree and 
Westlin' Wyne tell of fact or experience. As the game spread, and courses 
increased in number, distinctive features became more rare. How shall 
different names be found for the parallel lines of a gridiron?

The northern golfer not only takes his game seriously but he finds a 
gloomy joy in reminding himself of the perils he has to face. Heich o' 
Fash (which the caddy tells the ignorant stranger means Height--or 
Depth--of Trouble), Howe o' Hope (Grave of Hope) and Glenogle (Valley of 
Dread), show with what he has to contend. Could a better name be devised 
for the dour seventeenth than Warslin' Lea (Struggling Home)? But there 
is hardly a course, north or south, where names are given, that is too 
flat or too gentle to possess a Hell.

The shot that falls short of perfection tells why. There may be one 
bunker; there may be many. From the tee everything may look alluringly 
simple, but a hidden cavern may lie beyond the green. For the wrongdoer 
the torments are terrible and escape well-nigh impossible. Generally 
there is a local legend of a visiting Bishop who, getting into "Hell" and 
playing out with one heroic shot, heard his caddie mutter, "When ye dee 
tak' y'I niblick wi' ye."

At Barrington all the holes had names, but Hell was the only one in 
general use. It was so well deserved. And yet such a guileless hole it 
looked. A tempting green, not unusually small, only a hundred and twenty 
yards from the tee. But nature--or a devil in human guise--had placed it 
in the centre of a sandy waste. In front, in the shallowest part, the 
bunker was only six feet deep. Right and left were footpaths, barely a 
yard wide, crossing the sea of sand to the island green, beyond which the 
land fell away sharply to a depth of over twenty feet, to rise again 
abruptly to the plateau of the sixteenth tee. A perfect "drop and stop" 
shot made a three easy, but for anything else the punishment was 
incalculable. A lady champion of world-fame visiting the course for the 
first time, not sure which club would be the best, asked her caddie--" 
What shall I take here?"  

"Dunno, miss," was his reply. "A good many take ten." No overstatement, 
for he might have added that in one memorable combat the hole (and 
accidentally the match) was won in sixteen!

Hann and Sladen were, at the handicap, well matched. All-square when they 
left the fourteenth green, they faced the terrors of "Hell," knowing that 
what happened there might not improbably determine the issue of the 
struggle. One up with three to go is not a winning lead, but it is a big 
encouragement at a critical time. Sladen was to receive a stroke--rather 
an irony at such a hole; generally entirely unnecessary or hopelessly in 
adequate. They did not speak. The fight was too grim for that. It was 
Hann's honour. He took his mashie but did not hit the ball firmly enough. 
It fell a yard short, into the front bunker.

Sladen had a great chance. He stood there, his red hair blowing in the 
wind. His caddie (who, unknown to him, had a bet of a shilling with his 
colleague on the result of the match) handed him the mighty 
mashie-niblick brought specially for this one shot.

Sladen took it, made a preliminary swing and then hit a tremendous smack, 
clean and straight for the green. The ball flew high and it looked as 
though he had judged it perfectly. Alas! It was a fraction too good. It 
pitched past the pin, on the very edge of the green, and bounded into the 
cavern beyond.

In silence the four of them, the two men and their two caddies, strode 
towards the bunkers. Hann, niblick in hand, waited by his ball, and his 
caddie stood near on the footpath. The other caddie went to the green 
while Sladen passed on and was lost to view in the farther depths. It 
might well be that his ball was the farther from the pin. But he did not 
play the shot. His ball was resting against an obstruction that ought not 
to be found in any bunker. A human body!

A moment later his face was visible above the edge of the green. He 
looked startled, almost scared.

"Come her-I-re!" he cried.

Something in his tone made them all move to where he stood. And they saw 
it. A human form lying in an untidy heap at the bottom of that vast 
bunker. On its back, face upwards, a little to one side; one leg 
awkwardly bent under the body; one arm outstretched, the other folded 
across the chest. Clad in a grey suit. A grey felt hat a few feet away 
and beside it a golf club, its head buried in the sand.

"Mr. Crosbie!" muttered one of the caddies, the first to speak.

They all knew he was right. The features, more grey than white, and 
flecked with blood, were unmistakable.

"Is he dead?" whispered Hann.

"Ver-ry dead," said Sladen. "I barely touched him, but he is cauld and 
wet. I should eemagine he has been dead for hours."

"What must we do?" asked his opponent, forgetting, as was only natural, 
their contest. "Hadn't I better just see--"

"Nobody mustn't touch nothink," said one of the caddies. "Me and Joe will 
stay 'ere to keep people away. You gents 'ad best go the club 'ouse and 
telephone for the p'lice."

This caddie's name was Toffy Blair--why Toffy none could say. He had been 
in the army and earned his stripes. He walked with a limp but no one knew 
his job better than he. He was deservedly popular with the players.

"You are I-right," said Sladen in his rich deep tones. "Remain here. We 
will stop anyone we meet."

"Suicide, Toffy," muttered Joe, a lad of eighteen, as the men hurried 
away. "What d'ye think 'e done it for?

"'Tain't no suicide," said Toffy. "They often talks like it in 'ell, but 
they won't do it."

"'Ow d'ye know?"

"Know wot?"

"That it ain't suicide?"

"Cos there ain't no gun. Any fool could see that. Leastwise unless 'e's 
lyin' on it. Murder. That's what it is."

"Murder. Blimy!" Joe was silent a moment. Then he said, "Couldn't I just 
go and see where 'e was 'it?

"Certainly, if you wants to--and swing for doin' it! Like to put your 
footmarks by the body, would yer?"

Joe looked at him in silent awe. He had never thought of that. Whether 
Toffy had read detective stories, or only the Sunday papers, or if his 
wartime experiences had put him wise, he could not tell. He felt he had 
been saved from a grave peril.

"There ain't no footmarks," he said at last, "Not by the body; only Mr. 
Sladen's."

"That why yer want to make some?" was the scornful reply. "You go back to 
the tee and wait there to prevent anyone else playin'. They'll be along 
soon."

"Righto, Toffy," said Joe. "I'll stop 'em. But what about our bob?"

"Bets orf," was the terse reply. "Match abandoned."

CHAPTER SIX: INSPECTOR LEE

IT was rather late when Simon Ross and Bill Broughley started their game. 
When on holiday the young lawyer made no pretence of being an early riser 
and he hoped, when they met at breakfast, that the night's rest would 
have made Bill more like his usual good-humoured self. He had not seen 
him since he went out for his walk the evening before and he trusted to 
find him in better spirits.

In this he was disappointed. Bill was still very moody and he fussed 
about in a most unaccountable way. Twice he went to the porter's office 
to ask if there was no letter for him, and returned a third time to 
inquire if it was possible that something had come and had been given to 
someone else in error.

"Important, Bill?" asked Simon.

"No--I only wondered."

Then he hung around the lounge, pretending to read the morning paper. 
Meanwhile every one else was, making for the links.

"Playing this morning?" asked Simon at last. "Don't mind me, if you would 
rather not. I can easily fix up something."

"I want to play," said Bill. "I want to play."

So they made a belated start and were well away from the club-house, and 
also far short of the fifteenth hole, when the news reached them of the 
tragedy that had been discovered in "Hell."

"Crosbie found dead," repeated Broughley. "It can't be true." He seemed 
strangely agitated.

"No slander action now," said Simon. "What shall we do--play on or go 
back and make inquiries?"

"We can't play on," said Bill. "I wonder if Sylvia knows."

"Pretty sure to. There must be some commotion near the mill if the body 
was found just across the road. Shall we go there and see?"

"No," said Bill, "not yet. Those fellows are hurrying for the club house. 
Let us first make sure of the facts."

They could see other men abandoning their game and taking the shortest 
cuts across the course. Excitement was to be expected. Had any person 
been found dead on the links it would have created some stir, but for it 
to be a member, and one who had recently been so prominent in their 
quarrels and disputes, made it truly sensational.

In view of his own particular clash with the dead man two nights before, 
Simon could understand Bill being upset, but he seemed more disturbed 
than was really necessary. However, as he had said, the great thing was 
to get the facts.

This at first was not easy, as the reports at the club house were rather 
contradictory. The tragedy it appeared had been discovered by Hann and 
Sladen and the body was not to be moved until the police had examined it. 
One story was that Crosbie had fallen into "Hell" in some kind of fit and 
had died there. There were also whispers of murder and of suicide. But, 
as no one knew anything for certain, a good many of the eager inquirers 
were dashing out again to see for themselves what could be learnt at the 
scene of the tragedy.

"Hell!"  said one of them. "It has justified its name at last!" 

"I must go to the windmill," Bill muttered to Simon. "I simply must."

"Why not?" said Simon. "I will go with you, at any rate as far as that 
bunker."

He was not sure that he wished to go farther. Bill had not suggested it 
and, although he wanted to see Hazel again, this was not the sort of 
thing that would make a pleasing excuse. In addition to which he had the 
feeling that there was something between Sylvia Wilton and Bill Broughley 
that would make his presence unwelcome.

As they hurried along the narrow and little used roadway that skirted the 
links and led to the mill-house two motor cars swept rapidly past them, 
travelling in the same direction.

"You go in," said Simon, some minutes later, when they reached their 
destination. "I'll see what is happening down there."

Broughley, without a word, opened the gate and went along the pathway to 
the mill. His friend turned the other way and joined the crowd clustering 
round the famous bunker.

Toffy Blair had done his part well, but now the police had relieved him 
of his self-appointed duties. The curious onlookers had been pushed 
farther back and a camera--such is the promptitude of official 
routine--was already in position taking photographs from all angles of 
the undisturbed body. Sladen's ball still lay forlornly against the 
stiffened arm.

Simon recognised the officer in charge of the proceedings. He was 
Inspector Lee, a very capable member of the county police. They had met 
twice before. Once when the young barrister was on circuit and once in 
town when he was assisting French Norcutt in a big case in which Lee was 
concerned.

"Do you remember me, inspector?" Simon stepped forward and put the 
question.

"Mr. Ross?"  said Lee. "You here, eh? Suppose there is nothing you can 
tell me?"

"Depends what you want to know."

"Pretty much everything! When the photographers are finished and the 
doctor has made a preliminary examination the body will be taken away and 
I'll get a move on. Man's name is Crosbie, I'm told. Know him?"

"Slightly. I've heard a good deal about him."

"You shall tell me later. You know about this game of golf. I don't. One 
or two points there you might put me wise about."

"Of course I will," said Simon. "Have you any idea how he died?"

"Hit on the head with a brick! Or kicked by a mule! But I suppose you 
don't keep mules in these bunkers?"

"Not as a usual thing. But you mean that? He was murdered?"

"Not a doubt of it," said Lee grimly. He was an alert man with a beaky 
nose and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. The idea of murder did not distress 
him. If such things had to happen there was no reason that he could see 
why they should not take place in circumstances that might eventually 
bring credit to himself. On that he was fully determined. No trouble 
would be too great. He would see the thing through to the end. "You don't 
generally have two players in a bunker at the same time, do you?"

"It has been known," said Simon. "You each go after your ball. But they 
say that was not his ball."

He looked for some moments at the figure on the sand, and then he added: 
"My opinion, for what it is worth, is that he was not killed in the 
bunker. I daresay the footmarks can be accounted for. That sharp slope at 
the back leads to the sixteenth tee up above. I should imagine he was 
struck there and fell over. Or perhaps was pushed over. That dent in the 
sand wall looks as though something had hit it in rolling down and 
carried some of the sand with it."

"I had noticed it," said Lee, "but yours is an expert opinion and 
confirms my own."

"I wonder how long he has been lying there. As a rule the groundsmen come 
round every morning to rake over the bunkers and smooth out the 
heel-marks left the day before. If they have been this morning they would 
have found the body, had it been there then."

"This man," said the inspector, raising his voice and indicating Toffy 
Blair. "This man says someone came to rake the bunker and he sent him 
away."

"That's right, sir," said Toffy, who had lingered as near as possible to 
the centre of authority. "I told 'em all no one mustn't touch nothink. 
Kept 'em all away, I did."

"Was it you that found it?" asked Simon.

"Me and Mr. Sladen."

"Did you keep people away from the tee up there?" He pointed to the 
higher ground above them.

"Couldn't prevent 'em goin' there and looking down," said Toffy. 
"Footprints in the bunker--that was wot I thought of. Plenty of prints 
round about, but none near the body."

"Have you examined up there yet?" Simon put the question in a lower tone 
to the inspector.

"Just going to. It was crowded with people when we got here and I had 
them herded off. We might go up. But meanwhile what do you call this?"

He had looped a piece of string and by it he held a golf club.

"A wooden shafted niblick. Heavy head. A bit old-fashioned. Where was it 
found?

"Beside the body. Included in the first photographs. Think it was done 
with that?"

"I should doubt it," said Simon. "No marks on the blade. But of course 
the doctor can tell. I suppose you are testing it for finger-prints?"

"That's the idea. Would it be his own club?"

"I believe it is," said Simon. "I saw him playing yesterday. Perhaps 
Toffy can tell us."

The question was put to the caddie and he asserted confidently the club 
belonged to Crosbie. Said he had carried it for him many times.

"That doesn't help much," said the inspector. "Let us go up there."

As he led the way up the winding path to the sixteenth tee, he added, "I 
think you can take it he has been lying there all night. There was a 
little rain shortly before midnight and his clothes are wet. Of course 
the doctor will fix the hour as near as possible, but I reckon there will 
be no doubt that it happened yesterday. At what time does play stop?"

"A bit difficult to say," was the answer. "Most matches finish at 
tea-time, but now that summer time has started people play later and you 
get stray folk knocking a ball about until it is dark. The course is not 
deserted till dusk."

"Then, if Crosbie was knocking a ball about with that club of his, he 
might have been out pretty late and met someone and had a row with them?"

"Quite possible."

The plateau of the sixteenth tee was a wide one. The direction of the 
hole was almost at right angles to that of the fifteenth, so that the 
player in driving off had the "Hell" bunker on his right and the roadway 
and the windmill behind him. It was useless to consider the question of 
footmarks, for not only had the tee been tramped over all the previous 
day, but a number of people had climbed there that morning to look into 
the bunker beneath.

On the tee were the usual sand-box and the metal discs showing the line 
for driving. There was also the L.G.U.'s official mark for ladies, and to 
the right of the plateau, a yard or so from the brink of “Hell," was a 
rough seat--a straight tree trunk, some seven inches thick, fixed to two 
uprights of a similar character. It was to this seat that Inspector Lee 
turned his immediate attention. He examined with the most minute care the 
grass beneath and all round it. Simon, who was regarded with interest and 
perhaps envy by the group of spectators who were now kept at a respectful 
distance, was at his side.

"What do you make of this?" Lee asked grimly, pointing to a patch of 
discolouration on the turf. The grass was thin and the marks 
unmistakable. The effect of the rain had probably been to spread rather 
than to obliterate the tell-tale traces.

"Blood, undoubtedly," said Simon. "I suppose you will get tests made?"

"You bet we will. No guess-work. That clod must be cut out." Then he 
scrutinised very closely the trunk that formed the seat.

"A stain here too. What do you make of it?" 

Simon considered for a moment before he answered the repeated question. 
"He might have been sitting down when he was attacked," he suggested.

"Ah, which way was he sitting?"

"You mean was he looking towards the bunker or had he got his back to it? 
Ordinarily one sits facing the hole one is to play. But here you might 
look back to see what sort of trouble the next fellow is in. They call 
that bunker 'Hell' because it is so cruel."

"But surely there would be no next fellow," said Lee. "You don't murder a 
man with people looking on!"

"Not as a rule," agreed Simon. "If Crosbie sat there I should say he was 
facing the bunker and someone hit him from behind."

"And he fell forward down there?"

"Hardly that," said Simon. "When a man's head is cracked he collapses in 
a heap--hence those blood marks. He was pushed over afterwards."

"He might not have been sitting," said Lee. "A stand-up fight and he 
falls across the seat."

He looked round again, then he added, "Is there anyone in that windmill?" 

"Two ladies live in it. It is really a private house."

"Wonder if they saw or heard anything. I must ask them."

Simon thought if the inspector meant to make inquiries, which it was his 
obvious duty to do, it would be a kindly act to go with him.

"The ladies are friends of mine. I can take you across if you like."

"Good. I'll see if they have finished down there." Lee spoke a few words 
to the constable who was on duty on the tee and then returned to the 
bunker where the photographers had completed their work. A doctor was 
busy making a preliminary examination. He promised a formal report 
without delay. The inspector gave instructions for the removal of the 
body.

While this was being attended to he rejoined Simon and they crossed the 
road to the mill. The door was opened by Hazel Grantley.

"Bill has told you what has happened?" Simon said.

"Yes. He has just gone. Will you come in?"

"This is Inspector Lee, who is in charge of the case," he explained as 
they entered the lounge. He was surprised to hear that Bill had already 
left, but did not comment on it. The girl also said nothing when he told 
her who his companion was. Then Sylvia joined them. As she came forward 
he was struck by her extreme pallor. It almost seemed as though her 
beautiful features were carved in marble. He repeated his introduction of 
the inspector.

"Sorry to trouble you, ladies," said Lee politely. "You have heard about 
it and I want to know if you can help me at all?"

"How?" asked Hazel.

"Well, miss, this is the only habitation near the scene of the crime and 
I should be glad to know if there is anything you can tell me."

"I am afraid not. When did it happen?"

"We have no precise information as yet. We imagine it must have been 
sometime last evening. Did you hear or see anything of an unusual 
character?"

"No," said the girl. "I did not."

"Did you, miss?" he asked Sylvia.

"No."

"That's a pity. But think back. You might not take much notice of it at 
the time, but was there no strange sound, no cry, or anything of that 
sort during the evening or in the night?'

"I heard nothing," said Sylvia.

"Our windows do not look that way," added Hazel.

"I had noticed that," said the inspector. "Did you know the deceased at 
all, name of Crosbie?"

"No," said Hazel firmly.

"Nor you, miss?

"No," said Sylvia, in a much lower tone.

"What was the latest time you saw anyone on that tee?"

"We played ourselves in the afternoon," replied Hazel, "with Mr. Ross. We 
did not go out again or see or hear anything after we got back."

"And what time might that have been?"

"After tea, between five and six."

"You know nothing after that?"

"Nothing at all," said Hazel.

She was very definite and the inspector had too much to do to spend more 
time there. He expressed his regret that he had troubled them and turned 
to go. Simon looked at Hazel, half hoping she would say something further 
to him, or would offer some excuse for his remaining. She did neither and 
he followed his companion to a waiting car. One thought worried him. 
Sylvia had declared she knew nothing of Crosbie. Why did she not say she 
had once played with him--the game that Chase had thought so curious?

CHAPTER SEVEN: COMING AND GOING

"I HAVE often wondered," said Ross, as they drove away from the mill 
house, "how you really set about a job of this sort. Of course I have 
read detective stories, and the sleuth is generally a wonderful fellow 
who sees everything more or less from the start. But how does the pukka 
detective actually get going?"

"Not by inspiration," replied Lee, with something of a grin on his wide 
mouth. "It is just a matter of hard work. Collecting all the possible 
facts, sorting 'em out and fitting 'em together. Here is a little thing 
that is rather bothering me. When you play this golf game you have a bag 
of clubs, don't you? If that niblick is Crosbie's own, where are the 
others?"

"If you are playing a match you have a bag of clubs, but it is no unusual 
thing for a man to go out by himself with a single club to practice 
special shots. Had Crosbie any balls in his pocket?"

"Don't know yet. The contents of the pockets will be examined. I've given 
instructions for that. The ball by the body was said to belong to the man 
who found him."

"That was Sladen," said Simon. "Here is another point you might consider. 
Crosbie, we believe, was on that tee, but when a man is practising with a 
niblick he does not as a rule play from the tees."

"Why not?"

"He tries what we call approach shots--short ones over bunkers. He has a 
pocketful of balls and plays shot after shot before he picks them up. If 
Crosbie was on that tee and had no balls with him it is fairly sure he 
was not playing at all, but was carrying a club pretty much as one 
carries a stick."

"In other words," said Lee, "he had gone out to meet someone and the club 
might have been for defence?

"Yes--or just for something to carry. But Crosbie was in the last four in 
the captain's prize and, as I said, it is no uncommon thing for a man to 
try to improve a stroke of which he is doubtful."

"But he should not hit them from that tee?"

"No. It would destroy the turf and one generally uses a niblick to 
perfect a particular pitch."

"That is something to go on," remarked the inspector. "Balls in his 
pocket, he meant to play, but was followed and attacked. No balls, he was 
out to meet someone."

"It is a fair assumption," said Simon, "not more than that."

"Was he in business?"

"A solicitor."

"Staying at this hotel of yours--the Dormy House?

"Yes, but with a town practice. Does that mean calling in Scotland Yard?"

"Probably. Unless we can put our finger on the man who did it, right 
away. The Chief Constable will decide about that."

"That is Colonel Matthews, isn't it? I think you will find he is a member 
of the club."

"Is he?"  said the inspector. "That may be a help. Probably knows him. 
Was he popular--Crosbie, I mean?"

"I should hardly say that," answered Ross. "From what I have been told he 
had a following at one time but rather upset people." He repeated the 
story as given by Bill as to the candidature for the captaincy.

"You say he was in the last four for this prize? I suppose it is not 
likely one of his opponents would have knocked him out?"

"They certainly hoped to," laughed Simon, "but not in the sense you mean. 
You must give us credit for more sportsmanship than that."

"Does much money go with it?"

"No. A silver cup and a few pounds in the sweepstake. We are all keen to 
win our competitions but we do not brain our opponents."

"Someone brained him," said Lee grimly.

"He was due to meet a fellow called Knight, his original rival for the 
captaincy. No doubt it would have been a dour struggle, but I do not 
think Knight would try that way of winning."

"No harm in finding what Knight was doing at the time," commented the 
inspector. "When we know the time, that is. Meanwhile I wonder what they 
can tell us of Crosbie's movements at this hotel of yours."

They had reached the Dormy House. He told the driver of the car to pull 
up, and Simon followed him into the vestibule.

"Tell me if I am in the way," he said.

"I will," returned Lee, "when you are. At present you may be a help."

The door was swung open by a smart porter named Haines and the inspector 
immediately tackled him.

"Were you on duty last night?"

"Yes, sir," said the porter, who recognised his questioner. "Until 
midnight."

"You knew Mr. Crosbie?"

"Very well, sir."

"When did you last see him?"

"Yesterday; after dinner."

"Did he have dinner here?"

"Must have, sir. I saw him go out afterwards."

"About what time?"

"A little before nine."

"Oh, many other people going out or coming in then?

"Not a great many, sir, just then. Busier between eleven and twelve. 
Rather quiet otherwise."

"How was that?"

"A few of our residents brought friends in for the evening and a few went 
out for the evening. So it was not until late that the visitors went and 
the others came back."

"But you saw Mr. Crosbie go out about nine?"

"Yes, sir."

"How was he dressed?"  Lee asked the question partly to test the man's 
memory and powers of observation. "Dinner suits, I suppose?

"No, sir. A darkish grey suit. A good many gentlemen don't dress unless 
there is something special happening."

"Was he carrying anything?"

"A golf club. His bag is in the rack there, ready to be taken in the 
morning. He went outside and then he came back and took a club and walked 
away with it. I noticed that because I thought it was getting too late 
for much play."

"I see. Some people hold a club just for something to carry, don't they? 
Instead of a walking stick?

"Yes, sir. Perhaps to play an occasional shot if they feel like it, or to 
practise a swing."

"But would they do that at nine o'clock?"

"Well, sir, as I said, I was rather surprised. But gentlemen get so keen 
you can never be sure."

The inspector considered that for a moment, but he went on again:

"Did you see Mr. Crosbie come back?"

"He did not come back. His bed was not slept in."

"How do you know that?"

"The boots told me when I came on duty this morning. The chambermaid told 
him."

"Not evidence exactly," said Lee, with a glance to Ross. "When he was 
missed from his room was anything said or done about it?"

The man hesitated. "I believe it was reported, sir. But there was nothing 
to do. We never imagined--"

"What you did imagine, I suppose, was that he had spent the night with 
friends?"

"Yes, sir."

"Although you knew he had no clothes with him, only that club?

"Well, sir," said the man a little uncomfortably, "gentlemen do 
sometimes--I mean it was no business of ours. He might have suddenly 
decided to return to town."

"I understand. There had been no telephone call for Mr. Crosbie, so far 
as you know?"

"No, sir."

"You are sure he dined here?" put in Simon. 

"Oh yes, Mr. Ross. And after dinner he went out just as I said."

"Well, now," went on the inspector, "who else went out during the 
evening, more or less at that time?"

"There was Mr. Knight, Mr. Farmer and Mr. Broughley."

"Before or after Mr. Crosbie?"

"Mr. Farmer was before him and the others after. Mr. Broughley was the 
last. He went at about nine-fifteen."

Simon knew that was more or less correct and he was a little surprised at 
the porter's accuracy.

"Isn't it rather curious," he said pleasantly, "that you notice so 
particularly just when we come and go?"

"Matter of habit, sir," said the man. "Before I came here I was 
doorkeeper in a business place where I had to check everybody in and out. 
So I still do it more or less automatic."

"Did you see these men come back?" asked Lee. "When would that be?"

"Mr. Knight was the first, a little after ten. Then Mr. Broughley. And 
Mr. Farmer--I don't quite know. When we were busy. I think about eleven."

"Is there a night porter?"

"Yes, sir. He comes on at twelve."

"Did you tell him that Mr. Crosbie was still out?

"No, sir. I don't think I did."

"But, Haines," put in Ross again, "this front door of yours is not the 
only way in and out, is it?"

"Well, sir, there is a back door past the gent's lavatory that we don't 
lock until quite late. But it isn't used in the evening."

"It might be used without your knowledge? It is there to be used?”

"Well, yes, sir, but not at night. There are no lights that way."

"All the better if one did not want to be seen?"

"You might say that," agreed Haines doubtfully. 

"Tell me this," said the inspector, "did anyone to your knowledge arrive 
after Mr. Crosbie went out who had not previously been here?"

"Only Mr. Sladen. He had been away and he drove up in his car about a 
quarter-past nine. Just after Mr. Broughley went out. He told me he had 
come for an important match in the morning and would go to bed early."

"He is the man who found Mr. Crosbie--playing that match?"

"So I am told, sir."

"You are a very good witness, Haines," said Lee. "I want you to write 
down just what you have told me. The names of the people who went in and 
out, and the times. Also, as far as you can remember them, the other 
people who went earlier and returned later. It is just possible one of 
them saw something."

"Very good, sir." The porter was pleased with his task, for he prided 
himself on his memory.

"That is our trouble," remarked the inspector to Simon, when they were 
alone. "We have to question a hundred people to find the one who knows 
anything."

"I suppose," said Simon, "if you could be sure of the precise time when 
Crosbie was attacked you could check the movements of most of the people 
staying here. I mean a good many were at bridge, and so would answer for 
one another. Some were in the billiard-room and would equally be 
accounted for. But there is nothing to prove that anyone here really had 
any hand in it."

"You have a golf club and a golf hotel," said Lee, "right in the country. 
Except for that windmill there is hardly a residence within a mile of the 
place where it happened. The village is six miles away. He might have 
been followed from London. He might have been set on by a passing tramp. 
We must keep an open mind. But he was here among a lot of people who knew 
him and knew his habits. It's an odds-on chance--long odds--that someone 
here will know all there can be known about it."

"I grant the odds," said Simon, "but murder is an altogether incalculable 
thing. What is the next step?"

"Lunch," declared Lee.

"Will you have it here or at the club house?"

"I sent Sergeant Green to get some particulars from the club secretary. 
If we can get lunch there we might see what he has learnt. I've given in 
for Crosbie's room here to be locked. I shall examine it later."

They were quitting the Dormy House when a man ran up to them. It was 
Sladen, the player who had first discovered the tragedy. He wore no cap. 
His red hair was ruffled, that and his long red beard gave him rather a 
wild appearance.

"Are you Inspector Lee?"  he asked in his broad tone, addressing Simon's 
companion. "They told me it was your car outside here."

"That's right. What can I do for you?"

"There is something I ought to tell you. It may mean nothing, but that is 
for you to decide."

"We shall find a quiet corner in the cardroom." said Simon. "No one will 
be using it now."

CHAPTER EIGHT: WHO SAW HIM LAST

HE was right. The cardroom proved to be empty and the three men sat at 
one of the tables.

"Maybe you have heard," began Sladen in a rather deliberate manner, "that 
it was I who found the body. Directly I realised the man was dead I saw 
to it that nothing was touched. We came back--I was playing with Hann--to 
let you know about it."

"What time was it?"  asked Lee.

"Do you mean when I found him or when we telephoned?"

"Both."

"I could not say precisely. We started out a little before nine and got 
along pretty quickly. It must have been about half-past ten when we 
reached the fifteenth. It might have been eleven when we 'phoned."

"And you have something to tell me?"

"Just this," said Sladen impressively. "It is my opeenion that Crosbie 
had been there all night. Mind you, I am not a doctor and I barely 
touched him. But I saw him in that place twelve hours before and I should 
say he never came away--till you moved the body."

The inspector looked at him keenly. He was rather like a bird of prey 
when he leant forward to snap at a particular point.

"You saw him there--in that bunker?"

"Not in the bunker, but in the roadway close by."

"Near the windmill?"

"Yes. In the roadway between the windmill and the sixteenth tee."

"What were you doing?"

"I drove by in my car."

"Is it not rather unusual to come that way by car?"  asked Simon. "A bad 
road, isn't it?"

"I missed the turning off the London Road, and so went on to the village 
and then up past Farrer's Farm. Had I known how bad a road it was I would 
have turned back."

"You drove past Crosbie," said Lee. "Was he alone? What was he doing?"

"He was not alone. He was talking with another man."

"Do you know who it was?"

Sladen hesitated a moment, stroking his beard the while. "A member of the 
club. A Mr. Knight. Please do not think I am suggesting that Knight knows 
anything about his death. I am sure he would not harm anyone. But I 
imagine it is necessary to trace Crosbie's movements, and Knight will be 
able to let you know just when and where he left him."

"Did I not understand," said Lee meaningly, "that Knight and Crosbie were 
enemies?"

"I cannot say what you understood," replied Sladen slowly, "but the 
impleecation is hardly accur-r-rate. It may be they were not friends. But 
I would not say they were enemies."

"Were you surprised to see them together?"

"I would not have expected it," was the cautious reply.

"I see. What time was it when you passed them?"

"As near as I can surmise it was a quarter-past nine."

"And when did you reach this hotel?"

"A minute or two later."

Lee made notes of these times, which tallied fairly well with the 
recollections of the porter.

"You did not stop to speak to Crosbie or Knight?"

"No. They are not particular friends of mine and I wanted to get in."

"Did you see anyone else, near there or on the way to the hotel?"

Sladen again took a handful of his beard and passed his fingers down it. 
As an aid to contemplation beards seem to have something to commend them. 
Perhaps that is why a smooth-chinned age is impulsive and so little 
productive of the deeper thought.

"Before I saw Crosbie," he said slowly, "I passed a young fellow and a 
girl. They were sitting on the stile at the footpath just past the farm."

"Do you know who they were?"

"I believe it was the assistant professional, with one of the maids from 
here. But I could not swear to it."

"We will inquire," said the inspector. "Anyone else?"

"Nearer the Dormy House I passed another of our members, a Mr. 
Broughley."

"Which way was he going?"

"Along the lane, towards the mill."

"Then he must have met Crosbie and Knight?"

"Provided they remained long enough in the place where I saw them," 
agreed Sladen, with his usual caution.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

The beard had a little more of the bell rope treatment.

"A matter of hearsay evidence only. Maybe I should not repeat it."

"Let me have it," said Lee. "I can get confirmation later."

"I was told there was a quarrel in the cardroom on Saturday night and 
Crosbie was concerned in it."

"Oh," said Lee quickly, "who was he quarrelling with?"

"I would rather not say as I was not there. I understood Mr. Ross was 
present."

"Is that so?" The inspector's beak jerked quickly to his companion.

"Yes," said Simon. "I can tell you all about that, but I do not think it 
will help." It seemed to him as he said it that Sladen, who was again 
stroking his beard, was smiling rather maliciously.

"I will want to know," declared Lee. Then he turned again to the author. 
"You saw no one else?"

"Not near there. Only those lovers and Knight and Broughley."

"Did you notice if either of them--or anyone of the four--was carrying a 
stick or anything of that sort?"

Once more the hairs of memory were stimulated with gentle caresses.

"Knight maybe carried an umbrella and Broughley a stick. Broughley, by 
the way, wasn't wearing a hat."

"Oh--did you notice anything else about him?"

"He was walking quickly, that was all." Sladen had nothing more to tell 
them, but Simon asked if he might put a question.

"You have told us when and where you saw Crosbie and you say he never 
left there alive. What are your grounds for that opinion?"

"The body was found nearby and he had clearly been dead some time."

"But that would not preclude the possibility of his going away and 
returning--or being brought back--some hours later?

"It would not," Sladen admitted.

When he had left them Lee turned to his companion. "You did not tell me 
about that quarrel, Mr. Ross."

"Should have come to it in time," said Simon. He could see that suspicion 
might easily be directed towards his friend. A quarrel on Saturday night 
and on Sunday Bill was seen hurrying to the place where Crosbie was 
killed, more or less at the time when the killing might have been done. 
There was also his restlessness in the morning--though no one but himself 
knew of that. Of Bill's entire innocence he had no shadow of doubt, but 
as to the quarrel, it would be best to be frank about it lest Lee should 
get an exaggerated account from a more unkindly source.

"It was Farmer's quarrel in the first place. Crosbie had been making 
himself objectionable, a bit too much to drink, I think, and perhaps he 
is not a good loser. Anyway, Farmer refused to play with him and Crosbie 
got excited. Said it was an insult and he would report it to the 
committee. He was so noisy that he disturbed the rest of us. Broughley 
told Farmer he was quite right to refuse to play with a fellow who was 
behaving like a cad."

"Not exactly pouring oil on troubled waters. What happened next? Any 
blows struck?"

"No. Crosbie demanded if Broughley called him a cad and Broughley said he 
did. Crosbie threatened to take proceedings and then left the room. 
Probably a bit of bluff to cover his retreat."

"He certainly won't take proceedings now," said Lee significantly. "This 
man Broughley seems to have interfered rather unnecessarily. Were he and 
Crosbie already unfriendly?"

"Crosbie had been rude to him earlier in the evening. Otherwise I believe 
they hardly knew one another."

The inspector walked across to the window and looked out. He seemed to be 
thinking over and digesting what he had heard.

"How far is Sladen reliable?" he asked. "Rather weird looking. People who 
look odd generally are odd."

"I don't really know him," said Simon. "A bit of a crank, I believe. He 
wrote a curious book a little while back."

"A crime story?

"No," was the laughing reply, "very much the reverse. A vision of the 
future. He called it Travail and Triumph. A braver new world, with all 
cut out. A world composed only of women."

"Wouldn't last long!"

"I don't know. The idea is that after another world war and a series of 
strikes and revolutions in which men only combine in one thing--to show 
what fools they can be--someone discovers the secret of sex 
determination. Women are so disgusted with the mess men have made of 
things that all the babies are girls."

"Which, as I said, would soon bring the world to an end."

"Not at all," replied Ross. "The women knew what they were about and kept 
enough men for breeding purposes. Only the fittest, of course. The prize 
specimens. And only selected young women were chosen for mating. So love 
and all that it implies--jealousy, hate and envy, disappeared. Illness 
was lessened, quarrels were forgotten, and the world devoted itself to 
social and artistic development and improvement."

"Sladen wrote did he?" commented Lee. "Thought he looked a bit cracked. 
He'd be a specimen, with that beard of his that some of the women would 
be crazy for! Then the troubles would start again. But we must be getting 
on. I am more than ready for that lunch."

Once again his justifiable appetite was thwarted. The porter came in and 
said Mr. Hann was starting for London and wished to know if the inspector 
desired to see him before he went.

"It was Hann and Sladen who found the body," added Simon. "I believe Hann 
knew Crosbie pretty well."

"Better see him then," said Lee. "Bring him in."

"I ought to have been in town before this." Hann began speaking the 
moment he entered the room, evidently in a hurry. "I arranged to play 
early, as I had an appointment, but I did not like to go without seeing 
you. Is it true that Crosbie was murdered?"

"There seems little doubt of it," replied the inspector.

"It is terrible. Hardly believable."

Hann was, as usual, sprucely dressed, having changed his golfing clothes 
for a dark brown suit. His waxed moustache, the gold tie-pin and a gold 
ring on the little finger of each hand gave him rather a foppish 
appearance. But the fate of his friend evidently distressed him.

"You were present when the body was found?" asked the inspector.

"Yes, but if you've seen Sladen I don't suppose there is anything I can 
tell you about that. I knew Crosbie personally. I mean apart from golf. 
It is a shocking blow to me. I can hardly realise it. But I thought 
perhaps I could tell you something about him."

"I want to know all I can," said Lee. "Where did he live? What was he by 
profession?

"He was a solicitor. His office is in Theobald Square, No. 157. He has a 
service flat in Jacobus Court, Buckingham Gate."

"Married?

"I believe not."

"Do you know of any relations?"

"I am afraid I do not. I wanted to ask you if it would be all right for 
me to go to Theobald Square and tell his clerk, Samuel Jenks, what has 
happened. Jenks of course knows more than anyone else as to his private 
affairs."

"Someone will see Jenks," said Lee, who had duly noted the information 
given, "but there is no harm in your taking him the news."

"It will shock him," said Hann. "They have been together for years."

"Although Crosbie was a solicitor," remarked Ross, "I do not seem to have 
heard of him professionally--of course that doesn't mean much."

"I can quite understand it," said Hann. "Crosbie was one of those lucky 
ones--though that is an odd thing to say now--whose work almost did 
itself. I mean he was solicitor to some good companies and to three or 
four big trust estates. He had their affairs to look after and it 
provided a satisfactory income without his having to get outside work. If 
there ever was litigation he instructed those who specialise in it."

"Should have thought litigation was in his line," commented the 
inspector. "Rather quarrelsome, wasn't he?"

"Not at all," replied Hann, with an indignant glance at Simon. "It is 
most unjust to say such a thing. Were you referring to the quarrel of 
Saturday night?"

"I am not saying things," said Lee. "I am only asking. I thought there 
had been some trouble before Saturday. Is that wrong?"

"It depends what you mean by trouble. On Saturday he was grossly 
insulted. Before that there was the affair of the captaincy. Have you 
been told about it?"

"It was mentioned, but I'd like to hear your view of it."

"He was very badly treated. A lot of men wanted him to stand and he did 
so as a matter of principle. The committee tried to burke the issue by 
putting forward the old captain again. But Crosbie stood to his guns. 
Every one but Elkington and myself deserted him. He was a thoroughly good 
fellow. Ask Elkington."

This warm defence presented a new point of view, and Lee could see that 
the dead man's friends might well see matters in that way. But it did not 
greatly concern him.

"Can you suggest any reason why Crosbie should be killed?"

"I cannot."

"Can you suggest any person who had a motive for killing him?"

"I cannot."

"Knowing him as you did, would you imagine the cause of his death--if not 
due to some chance encounter--would more likely be attributable to his 
London life or to something down here?"

Hann looked at him for some moments in silence. "That is a wide and a 
difficult question," he said at last. "Had I been asked before, I would 
have said his murder in any circumstances was inconceivable. But it has 
happened. It still remains inexplicable. My first idea was that he had 
been knocked down by a passing motor and whoever did it got scared when 
they discovered what they had done and threw the body into that bunker. 
It is not far from the road. Is that impossible?"

Lee had seen the wound and remembered the blood marks on the seat and on 
the turf of the sixteenth tee. "I am afraid it is," he said. "Besides, 
the first thought of the motorist who does that sort of thing is to drive 
on. Not much traffic on that road, is there?"

"Very little. That might make a pedestrian careless."

"There is that," agreed the inspector. "Did you know Crosbie was going 
out that evening?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean by not exactly?"

Hann glanced again at Simon. "I asked Crosbie if he would play bridge and 
he said he would not. As Mr. Ross heard and saw what happened on Saturday 
he will be able to tell you it was not surprising. That, I suppose, is 
why he went out."

"Did you play bridge yourself?"

"No. Not as he wouldn't. I stayed in the smoking-room."

"You do not know if he was to meet anyone?"

"No. I did not know that he was going out. Only that he would not play 
cards."

"There is nothing you can tell me that will help me to trace his 
murderer--assuming, of course, that he was murdered?"

Hann shook his head. "It is a diabolical thing," he said, "whoever did 
it. I hope you will get to the bottom of it. I will help in any way I 
can, but I really have nothing on which to base a tangible suspicion. I 
expect to be down again in two days' time and if I learn anything 
anywhere I will let you know."

"Do," said Lee. "Just one thing more. When you say you know him in town 
do you mean in business or socially?

"In business. I am a surveyor and he put quite a lot of things in my way. 
Valuations, you know. His death will be a big loss for me. We got to be 
fairly intimate and, as a matter of fact, it was I who put him up for 
this club."

"You mentioned a Mr. Elkington, was he a business friend too?"

"I believe Crosbie did a little legal work for him, but they met here 
when Crosbie joined two years ago. He found Elkington was a neighbour in 
Jacobus Court and they often came down together."

CHAPTER NINE: A LONG LANE

LUNCH at last; a man's lunch. A good cut of cold sirloin, some flowery 
potatoes, a chunk of Cheshire cheese and a foaming tankard of brown beer. 
Inspector Lee introduced Simon Ross to his assistant, Sergeant Green, and 
the three of them tackled their fare with healthy appetites, quite 
unaffected by the nature of the case on which they were engaged.

Green, a typical officer of the sort that blusters with inferiors and is 
very deferential to those above them, also knew Ross slightly. He 
realised the young lawyer's help might be valuable in a case where he was 
acquainted with so many of the parties concerned and was rather pleased 
at meeting him on such friendly terms. He adopted a heavily humorous air.

"Must be careful what we say," he muttered, with a wink to Lee. "Maybe 
we'll have him against us presently."

"All in the interests of justice," commented Simon.

"Not so sure of that," returned Green. "We get what looks like a 
fool-proof case and one of you gentlemen discovers some tricky little 
point and gets the jury to say not guilty. Benefit of the doubt--when 
there's one speck of doubt to a pint of proof."

"When it's a hanging case," said Simon, "you've got to be sure. You can't 
put it right afterwards."

"Well," said Green complacently, killing the natural flavour of his food 
with a mass of yellow pickle, "I don't think we are going to have much 
trouble this time. Getting on pretty quick considering."

"What have you found out so far?" demanded Lee.

"Three things. I had the contents of the pockets examined, like as you 
told me. This is what we found." He passed a sheet of paper across the 
table. It contained a list of items, the first being gold watch and 
chain.

"His valuables was intact. Wallet with notes to the value of eight 
pounds."

"No letters?" asked Lee.

"No letters, but the valuables being intact shows he was not robbed. It 
disposes of the idea of a hold-up for plunder. Fancy! Lying there all 
night with that money and a gold watch and chain on him!"

"Is it sure he was there all night?" inquired Simon.

"That's number two. The doc swears he was dead not less than twelve 
hours. That takes us back to last night all right. When they open the 
stomach they'll know how long after his last meal it was." The sergeant 
rolled a lump of fat in some lean, pushed it through the pickle and 
shoved it into his mouth. "Horrid thought, isn't it?"

"There were no golf balls in his pocket?" asked Simon.

"None at all," said Green.

Lee and Ross exchanged glances and the former said, "What is the third 
thing you have found out?

"Someone who saw the man who did it. Can't absolutely swear to his 
identity, but we're not doing badly in the time."

"Who was it?" asked Lee.

"Did he see it done?" inquired Simon at almost the same instant. 
"Otherwise how does he know?" 

Green was obviously enjoying his big moment. He raised his tankard to his 
red face, took a good pull at his beer and wiped his thick black 
moustache.

"Reg Richards is the assistant pro," he said. "Keeping company with one 
of the maids at the Dormy Hotel. Queer name that, for a hotel. They had 
been walking out, down to Farrer's Farm, and on the way back he saw a man 
hiding in a clump of bushes this side of the windmill."

Sladen had seen the lovers but he had not seen the man in the bushes.

"How did Richards know the man was hiding?" asked Simon.

"That is surmise," said Green, "but it stands to reason. At the time 
Richards thought he was there for a natural purpose. So he walked past 
quickly that his young lady might not see."

"I expect the young lady saw all he did," commented Lee, "and looked away 
first."

"But he did not recognise the man?" persisted Simon.

"Not then. But he did later."

"How was that?" demanded his superior officer. 

"The young couple strolled down the lane, loiterin', as you might say, 
and the man caught them up and walked quickly past them, as though he was 
in a hurry."

"And then they recognised him?" said Lee. "Who was it?" 

"Richards says it was one of the members, a Mr. Broughley."

The inspector glanced significantly at Simon. "Begins to look 
interesting. Broughley quarrels with Crosbie. He is seen by Sladen 
hurrying after him along the lane. Richards sees him lurking in the 
bushes and a little later sees him hurrying back again."

"Beware of what the sergeant calls surmise," said Simon. "Since Richards 
did not really look at the man in the bushes how could he tell it was the 
same man who hurried past him afterwards?"

"I said he couldn't absolutely swear to it," replied Green, "but it 
stands to reason." That was a favourite phrase of his. "For one thing he 
wasn't wearing a hat, either time."

"It is dangerous to identify a man by the hat he wears," said Simon. 
"Hats are too much alike. But to identify a man by the hat he does not 
wear is more than dangerous, it is impossible."

"Still, we've got this," remarked Lee. "Sladen recognised a bare-headed 
man hurrying along the lane. Richards didn't meet him, but he recognised 
him hurrying back. If he was not the man in the bushes where had he got 
to?"

"The question of time may come into it," said Simon.

"That is true," said the inspector. "Did you ask Richards about that?"

"I did," replied Green. "The girl has to be in at ten and so they had to 
keep their eyes on the clock. It was a little after half-past nine when 
this Mr. Broughley hurried past them. They was then a few minutes' walk 
from the hotel. So they strolled on a bit further and got back punctual."

"That fits in pretty well with Sladen's story," said Lee. "I will see 
Richards myself and we must get a written statement. Did he meet anyone 
else in the lane?"

"He did. Two others. First, a Mr. Knight walking past the windmill 
towards the farm, and then Crosbie himself."

"Where was Crosbie?"

"Richards says he was on the sixteenth tee--that bit of ground opposite 
the mill."

"Then we get this," said Lee. "Sladen sees this couple sitting on a stile 
at one end of the lane. He drives past them and sees Crosbie and Knight 
talking near the mill. Further on he meets Broughley hurrying that way. 
The couple, starting a little later, and of course going slower, meet Mr. 
Knight, who has evidently finished his talk. Then they see Crosbie, 
standing more or less where he was killed, and they see a man hiding in 
the bushes on the other side of the road. They stroll on and are caught 
up by Broughley, again in a hurry, coming back from wherever he had been 
going to. We don't know yet as a fact exactly when Crosbie was killed, 
but if it was then--as seems likely--Broughley will have a lot to 
explain."

"Clear case to me," observed Green, scooping up some crumbs of cheese. 
"That's a long lane but, as it happens, there are no turnings out of 
it. So Broughley must be the man in the bushes. And why was he there? It 
stands to reason. He was waiting till the coast was clear."

"Broughley is a friend of mine," said Simon. "He is here and will answer 
for himself. I am quite sure he didn't kill Crosbie, but of course you 
will want to question him."

"You bet I will," said Lee.

"Quite right. But before you jump to conclusions ask yourself this 
question. There are others, but consider this first. If a man, planning 
murder, hid in the bushes to prevent himself being seen before he did it, 
would he, when he had done it, hurry past the very people he had hidden 
from, so that they could not fail to recognise him?"

It was an awkward point and neither officer was prepared with an 
immediate reply.

"All murderers make mistakes," muttered Green, after a time. "Loss of 
nerve mostly."

"It is not for me to put forward theories," said Simon, "but taking all 
the facts as stated, what was to prevent Knight going back to Crosbie 
after these lovers had passed and having another talk with him, perhaps 
with a fight to finish it? Don't think I am suggesting that is what did 
happen. If it had, Crosbie would most likely have done the killing. It 
only shows there are other possibilities. If--" He stopped suddenly. "By 
the way, that is Knight over there in the corner, feeding by himself. 
Shall I ask him to come across?"

"It is Broughley I want to talk to," said Lee, "but I'll have to see this 
fellow too. Looks a bit small for a prize winner at any game. But little 
men can be very fierce!"

"Golf is played on handicap, at least the competition for the captain's 
prize is. Knight is said to be a very hot ten."

Golfers are certainly not made to any particular pattern. Even among 
professionals there are long men and short men, stout men and lean men, 
but a short, stout man would seem to possess few natural advantages. 
Ernest Knight, the committee's first choice for the vacant captaincy, was 
distinctly tubby, a fact that was emphasised by his lack of inches. He 
wore gold-rimmed glasses and had a round good-natured face. But there was 
something about him that suggested tenacity of purpose. At golf he hit a 
fair ball and kept it straight. His short game was good, and, as Simon 
had implied, with a due allowance of strokes, he was difficult to beat. 
He was not exactly a popular member of the club, but was regarded as a 
very worthy one. No one had anything against him.

"Those two men I am lunching with are police officers concerned in this 
Crosbie business," Simon explained when he went across to his table. 
"They wondered if you would have anything to tell them."

"A shocking thing," said Knight. "Has quite upset me. I was expecting to 
play Crosbie to-morrow and now . . . but I am afraid I know nothing that 
will help them."

"You will answer any questions they want to put?"

"Why, of course. I would do anything I could. But the more I think about 
it the more it puzzles me. Can it not have been an accident?"

"They do not think so."

"I'll come over at once."

He got up and a few moments later the four of them were sitting together 
and three were smoking. Knight was a teetotaller and did not smoke.

"When did you last see Crosbie, Mr. Knight?" asked Lee, when Simon had 
introduced them.

"Last evening, after dinner."

"Where?"

"In the mill lane."

"Somewhere near where his body was found? I believe you call it the Hell 
bunker?"

"It was near there. In the roadway, as a matter of fact. I need not say 
how shocked I am. It is a terrible thing. Terrible."

"Did you meet him there by appointment, or was it by chance?"

"Entirely by chance. I was strolling along and I saw him in front of me. 
I hurried a bit and caught him up. I suppose it is two months since I 
last spoke to him, but I felt no ill-will. As it happened, he and I were 
to meet in the semi-final of the captain's prize. So I thought it would 
be a good opportunity to make an appointment and say I hoped for a 
pleasant game. I did not want there to be any bitterness about things 
that were over and done with."

"Was he pleasant to you?"

"Well," Knight beamed at him, "I would not exactly say that. He was a bit 
stand-offish. But we arranged to play to-morrow."

"Can you say what time this conversation took place?"

"I'm afraid I can't. It was between nine and ten. Nearer nine than ten, I 
should say."

The inspector glanced at his notebook, at the time suggested by Sladen. 
"Would nine-fifteen be about right?"

"It couldn't be far wrong."

"Then what happened?"

"I walked on and left him there."

"But wasn't that rather curious?" pecked Lee, bending forward. "You might 
have walked on together. Why, when you caught him up, did he stay there?"

"I don't think he wanted to walk with me. Perhaps it was natural after 
what had happened.  He said he was meeting someone."

"You are sure of that? He said he was meeting someone?"

"Quite sure."

"He did not say who?"

"No. As a matter of fact I thought it was just an excuse to get rid of 
me."

"It looks as though you were right," said Lee. "Let us go back a bit. Why 
did you go out last evening? Did you expect to see Crosbie? Were you 
meeting someone else? What was the idea?"

"It was quite by chance I saw Crosbie. I told you that. I was not meeting 
anyone. I--I suppose I am old-fashioned. I do not play cards on Sundays 
and so I either read a book after dinner or, if it is fine and I am not 
too tired, I go for a quiet stroll. I love God's stars on a peaceful 
Sabbath evening."

"Hm--so you met Crosbie. What happened when you left him?"

"I strolled on."

"Where to? Did you meet anyone?"

"Let me think." Knight gave his beaming smile. "I went on towards the 
stile near Farrer's Farm and I met Reg Richards and his young lady. Then 
I climbed the stile and walked on the links."

Lee regarded him suspiciously. "Rather dark for a cross-country walk, 
wasn't it?"

"It was bright at first and there is a footpath. It clouded over, so I 
came back."

"The same way?"

"Yes. To the stile and then down the lane." 

The beak-face lent a little nearer. "So you met Crosbie again?

"No. He was gone."

"Gone, was he? How do you know that?"

"He was no longer in the place where I saw him before. In fact he was not 
in the lane at all."

"Now," said the inspector impressively, "this is very important. How long 
after your talk with Crosbie was it when you passed that spot again?"

"I am afraid it is impossible for me to say," answered Knight uneasily. 
"It must have been approximately half an hour, but I really cannot be 
sure. I was back at the Dormy House a little after ten, but I did not 
notice precisely."

To Simon this seemed reasonable enough, but Lee was not satisfied. "Try 
and think. A lot may depend on it."

""I am sorry, but I was not thinking of time. I had no reason to do so."

"Remember, Mr. Knight," said Lee solemnly, "you, so far as we know, 
except for the murderer, were the last person to see Crosbie alive, to 
speak to him. He was killed more or less at the spot where you and he 
parted. If he was to meet someone, that might well be the person we want. 
Can you suggest nothing that will throw light on his death?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," answered Knight, obviously affected. "Have you 
asked Richards? He might have seen him after I passed?"

"We, of course, will see Richards," said Lee. "I suppose he was gone when 
you returned?"

"Richards? I did not see him again. I only met one person."

"Who was that?"

"One of our members, a Mr. Broughley." Each of the other three men looked 
at him in surprise.

"Where exactly did you meet him?" asked Lee. 

"It must have been about half-way between the Dormy House and the mill."

"He was going towards the mill?"

"That is right."

"The time," said Simon, "if you left Crosbie at nine-fifteen and came 
back half an hour later, would have been about a quarter to ten?"

"Thereabouts," agreed Knight.

"Sure it was Broughley?" inquired Lee.

"Quite sure. I said good-night to him."

"Did you notice anything queer about him?"

Knight looked at him doubtfully. "How do you mean queer? He was walking 
rather fast and I believe he was bareheaded."

The two officers exchanged glances. Lee turned over the leaves of his 
notebook.

"It isn't sense," muttered Green.

"While you were talking with Crosbie," said the inspector, "did a motor 
car pass you, going towards the hotel?"

"Yes," said Knight, "it did. I noticed it because cars so seldom go that 
way. I did not see who was in it."

"If I tell you Mr. Sladen was in it and, after passing you and Crosbie, 
he met Broughley hurrying towards you, bareheaded--half an hour earlier 
than you saw him coming that way--what would you say?"

"It certainly seems odd. I can only suggest Broughley came that way 
twice."

"Both times going in the same direction?"

"Apparently; you must ask him."

"Be sure we will," said Lee grimly.

To Simon Bill's double journey did not appear inexplicable. No doubt he 
had been to the windmill. Possibly on his first call Sylvia and Hazel 
were out, so he went back again. But he did not offer any explanation. 
Bill could do that when necessary. Inspector Lee was asking Knight 
another question. "You can tell us nothing more?"

"I am afraid not."

"It amounts to this then. At about nine-fifteen you were talking with 
Crosbie somewhere near the place where his body was subsequently found. 
He seemed his normal self and arranged a game with you for two days 
later. He said he was expecting to meet someone and you left him. You 
passed that way again at about a quarter to ten and he was gone?"

"That is it exactly," said Knight, "except that the times may be 
approximate."

"And a little further along you met Mr. Broughley hurrying towards the 
same spot?"

"That is so."

"What else can you tell us?"

"Only that I am sure I am expressing the views of us all when I hope you 
will soon learn all you want to know. It is a most unhappy affair and we 
shall not be satisfied until you have got to the bottom of it."

CHAPTER TEN: FLIGHT?

"QUEER little man," remarked Lee, as Knight, with a bow and a beaming 
smile, left their table. "Seems straight enough, but he was with Crosbie 
on the spot and more or less at the time. Also they were not friends. We 
must remember that."

"I reckon he's all right," said the sergeant. "I told you Broughley was 
our man. It stands to reason. What do we do next?"

"I must use the 'phone," said Lee, "and perhaps see the club secretary. 
Do you think you can get Broughley for us, Mr. Ross?"

"Certainly," said Simon. "I'll bring him here."

"Good. You, Green, fetch that young Richards."

Simon was glad that it fell to him to find Bill. He was convinced that 
his friend knew nothing of the crime, but he wanted to let him know just 
what had so far been discovered. Bill was in a queer mood and if he 
fenced with the inspector it would do him no good. He had had a quarrel 
with Crosbie; he had been seen hatless following him along the mill lane; 
a hatless man had been noted lurking in the bushes near the spot where 
the murder was committed and, still hatless, Bill had been recognised 
hurrying from that same spot and later again back to it. Neither Sladen 
nor Richards nor Knight was likely to have made a mistake. Certainly they 
could not all have been wrong.

The man in the bushes was no doubt someone entirely different. Bill had 
probably called at the windmill. He, of course, would explain his 
movements in a perfectly satisfactory way. But it would be kindest to let 
him see clearly that it was up to him to do so, and then to take him to 
face the official questioner.

But something of a shock was coming. When he reached the Dormy House 
Porter Haines stopped him.

"Got a note for you, sir," he said.

Simon took it. It consisted of two hastily written lines.

'Going away for a few days. Write again later. Bill.'

Simon stared at the brief message. What on earth had induced Bill to dash 
off without a word of warning just at that critical moment? It was the 
most unfortunate thing he could possibly have done.

"When did you get this?" he asked the porter.

"About an hour ago, sir. Mr. Broughley asked me to let you have it when 
you came in."

"And what did he do then?"

"He went off in his car."

"Do you know where?"

"No, sir. He didn't say."

What should be done? It was quite evident that Bill could not realise the 
impression his sudden departure would cause. His quarrel with Crosbie was 
naturally the talk of the place, and, when Crosbie was murdered, he chose 
to run away without a word of explanation to anyone. Could anything be 
better calculated to centre attention on himself and perhaps divert it 
from the real criminal? Of course he would not know how things had been 
shaping. His act was probably the outcome of supreme innocence, but it 
looked like supreme folly. He must come back.

He had not only gone, he did not say where he was going. Would Sylvia or 
Hazel be likely to know? Bill had been with them that morning and would 
hardly have left without some sort of farewell. They surely could throw 
light on the matter. Simon decided his first step must be to make 
inquiries at the windmill.

To save time he got out his car and ran along the lane to the mill. On 
the links side for part of the way there was a high hedge; on the other 
only occasional bushes. He noticed as he passed it, the cluster of thorn 
to which Sergeant Green had alluded, close to the mill and almost 
opposite the sixteenth tee. That tee was now deserted. The police had 
evidently taken all they required and there was no play in progress. One 
man was still on duty beside the bunker.

Then Simon saw someone coming into the lane from the mill. It was Hazel.

He jammed on his brakes and jumped down to meet her. "I was just going to 
call," he said. "When Bill was with you this morning, did he mention 
anything about going away?"

He thought she looked at him rather queerly. She shook her head. "No. He 
did not. Has he been back since?"

"He has gone. He left me this note."

He produced the letter the porter had handed to him. Hazel read it.

"Well, what about it? Why shouldn't he go?" Her tone was almost hard and 
there was a definite challenge in the gaze that met his so squarely. It 
was not an easy question to answer. He did not desire to be the first to 
mention suspicions that others might entertain.

"Unusual to leave a pal like that, isn't it? As a matter of fact, there 
is something I want to see him about. I wondered if you or Miss Wilton 
could tell me where I should be likely to get into touch with him? The 
only other address I know is his London club."

"Perhaps he is there," said the girl coldly.

"I say, Hazel. I thought we were going to be friends. Why are you 
treating me like this?"

"How am I treating you?" Just a gleam of the old fun shone in her eyes.

"As though I was a mud bank and you were using a barge-pole to push 
away!"

"I did not mean to do that," she smiled.

"I know we have only met twice, but that is not all that counts. Suppose 
I could ever help you in any way, wouldn't you let me do it?"

"Charming of you to suggest it. Why suppose such a thing? Do I look so 
careworn?"

"You look--never mind that! I feel you are anxious about something."

For a moment she hesitated. Then came a glint of mischief. "A man once 
proposed to a girl, saying he would share her worries. She told him she 
had none. 'Marry me and you will have,' he said. Pretty true in most 
cases!"

Simon laughed. "Heaven forbid that I should bring you worries. You are 
sure everything is all right?"

"Haven't I said so? Why do you imagine otherwise?"

"Well," he murmured resignedly, "keep me at a distance if you must, but 
drop the barge-pole. Surely an arm's length is enough."

"All right," she smiled again. "An arm's length."

She held out her hand so that he literally was at arm's length.

He gripped the hand and then--why he did it he hardly knew. He was not 
given to that sort of thing. But her smile was so alluring, so provoking, 
that he drew the captured hand nearer and he kissed her.

"Now what do I do?" she cried furiously, her little head held high and 
her eyes sparkling with indignation.

"Isn't there something in the Bible about turning the other cheek also?"

"Oh!--it will have to be the barge-pole," she said, "or something 
longer!"

She turned on her heel and, making the most of her height, re-entered the 
mill garden.

He watched her in silence. Of course he ought not to have done it. It was 
inexcusable. But why, when she was setting out to go somewhere, had she 
turned back? Was it to escape from him? Or was it to take to Sylvia the 
news he had brought about Bill?

It was useless to stand there and stare after her. He jumped into his 
car, turned it round and made for the club house. He must find Bill, but 
he did not want to see Inspector Lee. There might be awkward questions. 
He left a message that as Bill had returned to London he had gone after 
him.

Then he set off. He thought a good deal about Hazel. He hoped she was not 
really offended at what he had done. He must see her again and beg her 
forgiveness. But at the moment he was concerned about Bill. And there 
again Hazel puzzled him. In fact, the whole week-end had been puzzling. 
Bill was keen on Sylvia; he had admitted as much. And she had seemed to 
like him. Yet he had gone without a word, just at the moment when 
Crosbie's death made his departure look so peculiar. And Hazel's attitude 
to the affair was utterly baffling.

His little Austin was capable of a pretty considerable speed and having 
left the country lanes and struck the main road for town, he went along 
as quickly as he could. He wanted to get back to Barrington before night 
and if he could catch Bill and bring him too, that would be all to the 
good.

Then suddenly he saw matters from a new angle. Naturally Crosbie's death 
had impressed him and he had been regarding everything from a supposed 
connection with that tragic happening. Had he been entirely wrong?

Unless his reading of the symptoms had been wholly at fault, Bill 
Broughley had meant to ask Sylvia Wilton to marry him. Suppose he had 
done so and she had refused him? Would not his natural impulse be to go 
away? That would account for the vague letter he had left behind. It 
would also account for Hazel's curiously non-committal attitude. She 
would not wish to discuss her cousin's affairs. If Sylvia had kept Bill 
on tenterhooks for days and had finally said No on the Sunday evening, 
that would explain his moodiness all the week-end and his hurryings along 
the lane on the fatal night. It would also explain the restlessness of 
that morning and the vain hope for a letter. When the tidings of 
Crosbie's death, so near the mill, were received, he had thought it his 
duty to take the news. Perhaps it was an excuse to see her again. Then he 
had gone.

The more he thought it over, the more Simon was satisfied that his 
solution was somewhere near the truth. These three people were worried 
about their own concerns and Crosbie's death had no interest for them, 
except as a local sensation.

But that did not alter the fact that Bill's disappearance, after his 
quarrel with the dead man, would look queer to others. Therefore, his 
return was highly desirable, even if he went away again later. He might 
find it painful to explain matters to Lee, but, in view of the 
inspector's justifiable suspicions, it was necessary for him so to do.

There was a car in front. Simon took no notice of it for a time, then he 
realised it was a blue Sunbeam saloon--Bill's car! He knew it well 
enough.

To have caught it up was a bit of luck. He tried to get an extra turn of 
speed and was soon gaining on it. As he drew nearer, he did a little 
fancy work on his horn to attract his friend's attention so that he might 
get level and then explain his purpose.

The result was not as he expected. It seemed that the driver in the 
Sunbeam, seeing in his mirror that he was being followed, decided to 
leave his pursuer behind. He shot ahead, the space between the two cars 
growing greater.

Simon did his best. He knew the Sunbeam, if it went all out, could beat 
him, but he must not lose his man now that he had found him, and it was 
annoying to think that every minute was adding to the mileage they would 
have to return. That Bill would return when he knew why he was wanted he 
did not doubt.

There is always a thrill in a race. It was a good road and there was 
little traffic, but, do what he could, Simon was unable to get nearer. If 
by chance he gained a bit, the Sunbeam always shot on again and, at last, 
the distance widened till his quarry was lost to his view.

Then fortune favoured him. He kept on and on and after some miles he saw 
in front of him a road side petrol station. The blue Sunbeam had pulled 
in there. Evidently Bill had run short of juice. Simon slowed down and 
turned in beside him. He jumped out and ran to the other car just as its 
driver was handing some money to the garage attendant and the supply pipe 
was being removed.

"Bill!" he cried.

But it was not Bill. There is more than one blue Sunbeam in the world and 
the owner of this was the man Elkington, the member of the Barrington 
club who had been described as Crosbie's closest friend.

"Hullo," he said. "You run short too? I thought I saw you behind me some 
way back."

"I took you for someone else," said Simon. "That was why I tried to catch 
up."

"Oh, I never let anyone pass me, if I can help it." He pressed his 
starter. "Good-bye."

Simon followed him out. He had plenty of petrol and did not want to waste 
time, but he did not race quite as wildly as before. Elkington evidently 
had his own reasons for hurrying to town and, although Simon felt he had 
been rather foolish in the mistaken chase, it was all to the good. He 
pushed along and soon reached the outskirts of London.

He ran quickly to the club near Trafalgar Square of which Bill was a 
member. There another disappointment awaited him.

"Yes," said the porter, "Mr. Broughley has been in to-day; about an hour 
ago. He did not stop."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No, sir. I asked if he would want a room tonight and he said not. He 
took a few letters and drove off."

That was that. The whole world to choose from--where had Bill gone? If he 
decided to lose himself in some jungle because Sylvia had turned him 
down, and at the same time there was a hue and cry for him over the 
Crosbie affair, it would be a pretty comedy. But what, Simon asked 
himself, could he do next?

Was it possible that, after all, the Crosbie affair did in some way come 
into it? If so, what could be Bill's purpose in coming to town? Did his 
friend know more of Crosbie than he had imagined? Had they by any chance 
had business differences? Simon recalled the scene on Saturday night. 
Bill had flared up in a very queer manner. Crosbie had been rude to him, 
but the actual quarrel was not his affair, yet he had burst into it as 
though he could not contain himself.

At a more moderate pace he pushed on to Theobald Square. It was not 
likely Bill had been there, but it might be possible to ascertain whether 
or not he and Crosbie had ever had dealings together. Any light on the 
problem would be welcome. It would be annoying to return to Barrington 
with nothing done and nothing learnt.

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THEOBALD SQUARE

THE lawyers of London have an eye for attractive quarters and no doubt 
quiet is a desirable thing--though an increasingly rare one--for offices 
where documents of surpassing importance have to be discussed and 
disputed.

Simon Ross found that Theobald Square, like others of its age and kind, 
had many charming old houses overlooking a well kept garden. Each house 
appeared to be let in suites or floors and the door that was inscribed 
Arthur Crosbie, Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths, opened to a suite 
of three communicating rooms.

The outer room, a very small one, contained two chairs, a copying press 
and an office boy. The middle room usually accommodated Samuel Jenks, the 
managing clerk; Nora Youle, a typist; and Edgar Rossiter, the articled 
pupil, away just then on holiday.