the club?"

"Yes, Miss Carwell was kind enough to secure a visitor's card for me."

"Then let's forget our sorrows; drown them in the bubbling glasses with
hollow stems!" cried Garrigan, gayly.

"Here, Shag," called the colonel, as he gave his rod to his colored
servant. "I don't know when I'll be back."

"Well said!" exclaimed Sharwell.

Then they adjourned to the nineteenth hole.

If it is always good weather when good fellows get together, it was
certainly a most delightful day as the colonel and his two hosts sat on
the shady veranda of the Maraposa Golf Club. They talked of many things,
and, naturally, the conversation veered around to the death of Mr.
Carwell. Out of respect to his memory, an important match had been
called off on the day of his funeral. But now those last rites were
over, the clubhouse was the same gay place it had been. Though more
than one veteran member sat in silent reverie over his cigar as he
recalled the friend who never again would tee a ball with him.

"It certainly is queer why Harry Bartlett doesn't come out and say what
it was that he and Mr. Carwell had words about," commented Sharwell.
"There he stays, in that rotten jail. Bah! I can smell it yet, for I
called to see if I could do anything. And yet he won't talk."

"It is queer," said Garrigan. "If he'd only let his friends speak for