At the end of the set, which Charlie won, a couple of spectators who had
come up unseen applauded their energy, and Charlie, swinging round in
flushed triumph, raced up for a word with his host and Molly Erie.

"I can't stuff over a fire all the afternoon," he said. "But the light
is getting bad, isn't it? Fisher and I will have to knock off. Are you
two going for a walk? We'll come, too, if you are, eh, Fisher?"

He turned towards Fisher, who had come up, and held out his hand for the
other's racquet.

Molly uttered a sudden startled exclamation.

"Why, Charlie," she ejaculated, "what have you done to your arm? What is
the matter with it?"

Charlie jumped at her startled tone and tore down his shirt-sleeve
hastily.

"An old wound," he said, with a shame-faced laugh.

She put her gloved hand swiftly on his to stay his operations.

"No, tell me!" she said. "What is it--really? How was it done?"

"You will never get him to tell you that," laughed Bertie Richmond. "You
had better ask Fisher."

"Oh, rats!" cried Charlie vehemently. "Fisher, I'll break your head with
this racquet if you give my show away. Come along! I believe the moon