A Lost Leader. E. Phillips Oppenheim

turned to stone, perfectly rigid and motionless. His face was like a still, white mask.

      "I am so sorry," Mannering said, "but I have had a most unexpected visit from an old friend. May I introduce Sir Leslie Borrowdean—Mrs. Handsell!"

      The lady in the car bent her head, and Borrowdean performed an automatic salute. Mannering continued:

      "I am afraid that I must throw myself upon your mercy! Sir Leslie insists upon returning this afternoon, and I am taking him back for an early luncheon. You will find Clara and Lindsay at the golf club. May we have our foursome to-morrow?"

      "Certainly! I will not keep you for a moment. I must hurry now, or the tide will be over the road."

      She motioned the driver to proceed, but Borrowdean interposed.

      "Mannering," he said, "I am afraid that the poison of your lotos land is beginning to work already. May I stay until to-morrow and walk round with you whilst you play your foursome? I should enjoy it immensely."

      Mannering looked at his friend for a moment in amazement. Then he laughed heartily.

      "By all means!" he answered. "Our foursome stands, then, Mrs. Handsell. This way, Borrowdean!"

      The two men turned once more seaward, walking in single file along the top of the grassy bank. The woman in the car inclined her head, and motioned the driver to proceed.

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

THE WOMAN WITH AN ALIAS

       Table of Contents

      Borrowdean seemed after all to take but little interest in the game. He walked generally, some distance away from the players, on the top of the low bank of sandhills which fringed the sea. He was one of those men whom solitude never wearies, a weaver of carefully thought-out schemes, no single detail of which was ever left to chance or impulse. Such moments as these were valuable to him. He bared his head to the breeze, stopped to listen to the larks, watched the sea-gulls float low over the lapping waters, without paying the slightest attention to any one of them. The instinctive cunning which never deserted him led him without any conscious effort to assume a pleasure in these things which, as a matter of fact, he found entirely meaningless. It led him, too, to choose a retired spot for those periods of intensely close observation to which he every now and then subjected his host and the woman who was now his partner in the game. What he saw entirely satisfied him. Yet the way was scarcely clear.

      They caught him up near one of the greens, and he stood with his hands behind him, and his eyeglass securely fixed, gravely watching them approach and put for the hole. To him the whole performance seemed absolutely idiotic, but he showed no sign of anything save a mild and genial interest. Clara, Mannering's niece, who was immensely impressed with him, lingered behind.

      "Don't you really care for any games at all, Sir Leslie?" she asked.

      He shook his head.

      "I know that you think me a barbarian," he remarked, smiling.

      "On the contrary," she declared, "that is probably what you think us. I suppose they are really a waste of time when one has other things to do! Only down here, you see, there is nothing else to do."

      He looked at her thoughtfully. He had never yet in his life spoken half a dozen words with man, woman or child without wondering whether they might not somehow or other contribute towards his scheme of life. Clara Mannering was pretty, and no doubt foolish. She lived alone with her uncle, and possibly had some influence over him. It was certainly worth while.

      "I do not know you nearly well enough, Miss Mannering," he said, smiling, "to tell you what I really think. But I can assure you that you don't seem a barbarian to me at all."

      She was suddenly grave. It was her turn to play a stroke. She examined the ball, carefully selected a club from her bag, and with a long, easy swing sent it flying towards the hole.

      "Wonderful!" he murmured.

      She looked up at him and laughed.

      "Tell me what you are thinking," she insisted.

      "That if I played golf," he answered, "I should like to be able to play like that."

      "But you must have played games sometimes," she insisted.

      "When I was at Eton—" he murmured.

      Mannering looked back, smiling.

      "He was in the Eton Eleven, Clara, and stroked his boat at college. Don't you believe all he tells you."

      "I shall not believe another word," she declared.

      "I hope you don't mean it," he protested, "or I must remain dumb."

      "You want to go off and tramp along the ridges by yourself," she declared. "Confess!"

      "On the contrary," he answered, "I should like to carry that bag for you and hand out the—er—implements."

      She unslung it at once from her shoulder.

      "You have rushed upon your fate," she said. "Now let me fasten it for you."

      "Is there any remuneration?" he inquired, anxiously.

      "You mercenary person! Stand still now, I am going to play. Well, what do you expect?"

      "I am not acquainted with the usual charges," he answered, "but to judge from the weight of the clubs—"

      "Give me them back, then," she cried.

      "Nothing," he declared, firmly, "would induce me to relinquish them. I will leave the matter of remuneration entirely in your hands. I am convinced that you have a generous disposition."

      "The usual charge," she remarked, "is tenpence, and twopence for lunch."

      "I will take it in kind!" he said.

      She laughed gaily.

      "Give me a mashie, please."

      He peered into the bag.

      "Which of these clubs now," he asked, "rejoices in that weird name?"

      She helped herself, and played her shot.

      "I couldn't think," she said, firmly, "of paying the full price to a caddie who doesn't know what a mashie is."

      "I will be thankful," he murmured, "for whatever you may give me—even if it should be that carnation you are wearing."

      She shook her head.

      "It is worth more than tenpence," she said.

      "Perhaps by extra diligence," he suggested, "I might deserve a little extra. By the bye, why does your partner, Mr. Lindsay, isn't it, walk by himself all the time?"

      "He probably thinks," she answered, demurely, "that I am too familiar with my caddie."

      "You will understand," he said, earnestly, "that if my behaviour is not strictly correct it is entirely owing to ignorance. I have no idea as to the exact position a caddie should take up."

      "What a pity you are going away so soon," she said. "I might have given you lessons."

      "Don't tempt me," he begged. "I can assure you that without me the constitution of this country would collapse within a week."

      She looked at him—properly awed.

      "What a wonderful person you are!"

      "I am glad," he said, meekly, "that you are beginning to appreciate me."

      "As a caddie," she remarked, "you are not, I must