shaken Mortimer Sturgis. I was away at the time, but I am told by those
who saw him that his game went all to pieces.

He had never shown much indication of becoming anything in the nature
of a first-class golfer, but he had managed to acquire one or two
decent shots. His work with the light iron was not at all bad, and he
was a fairly steady putter. But now, under the shadow of this tragedy,
he dropped right back to the form of his earliest period. It was a
pitiful sight to see this gaunt, haggard man with the look of dumb
anguish behind his spectacles taking as many as three shots sometimes
to get past the ladies' tee. His slice, of which he had almost cured
himself, returned with such virulence that in the list of ordinary
hazards he had now to include the tee-box. And, when he was not
slicing, he was pulling. I have heard that he was known, when driving
at the sixth, to get bunkered in his own caddie, who had taken up his
position directly behind him. As for the deep sand-trap in front of the
seventh green, he spent so much of his time in it that there was some
informal talk among the members of the committee of charging him a
small weekly rent.

A man of comfortable independent means, he lived during these days on
next to nothing. Golf-balls cost him a certain amount, but the bulk of
his income he spent in efforts to discover his wife's whereabouts. He
advertised in all the papers. He employed private detectives. He even,
much as it revolted his finer instincts, took to travelling about the
country, watching croquet matches. But she was never among the players.
I am not sure that he did not find a melancholy comfort in this, for it
seemed to show that, whatever his wife might be and whatever she might
be doing, she had not gone right under.