"I am afraid," he said grimly, "that you will not think it of much
importance. I am on my way to play in a golf tournament there."

"A golf tournament at The Hague!" Mr. Dunster repeated, in a
slightly altered tone. "What is your name?"

"Gerald Fentolin."

Mr. Dunster stood quite still for a moment. He was possessed of a
wonderful memory, and he was conscious at that moment of a subtle
appeal to it. Fentolin! There was something in the name which
seemed to him somehow associated with the things against which he
was on guard. He stood with puzzled frown, reminiscent for several
minutes, unsuccessful. Then he suddenly smiled, and moving
underneath the gas lamp, shook open an evening paper which he had
been carrying. He turned over the pages until he arrived at the
sporting items. Here, in almost the first paragraph, he saw the
name which had happened to catch his eye a moment or two before:

GOLF AT THE HAGUE

Among the entrants for the tournament which commences
to-morrow, are several well-known English players,
including Mr. Barwin, Mr. Parrott, Mr. Hillard and
Mr. Gerald Fentolin.

Mr. Dunster folded up the newspaper and replaced it in his pocket.
He turned towards the young man.

"So you're a golfer, are you?"