on.

"You are six up at the turn, signore," remarked Ricordo to Sprague.
"That is odds against one; but _noi verremo_."

Sprague walked silently to the next tee. It was the first hole he had
lost to the foreigner, and although his position seemed well-nigh
impregnable, he had a fear of losing. He felt as though he were not
playing with a man, but with fate.

Ricordo took the honour. The green was over two hundred yards away, but
he landed his ball safely on it. Sprague drove next; he failed to reach
it by more than thirty yards. Purvis fared no better. Again Ricordo won
the hole.

"Five up, and eight to play," he laughed pleasantly. "I cannot afford to
make any mistakes, signore."

Ding, dong, went the balls. When they had played the seventeenth hole,
Ricordo had actually placed himself one up on Purvis, and was all square
with Sprague. The game was to be finished on the last green.

"Ah, I like that," said Ricordo lightly. "Life is never interesting when
everything is settled early in the game, eh, Mr. Sprague? And
everything is worth so much more when we win by a single bold stroke,
eh?"

Why it was, Sprague could not tell, but his heart beat faster than was
its wont. An atmosphere of grim earnestness possessed him, and more, a
fear filled his heart. After having the game in his hands he was in
danger of losing it. Not that he had played badly. In nearly every case
he had been level with bogey, but then in nearly every case for the last
nine holes the stranger had beaten him by a stroke. Yes, he was angry.
The man had commenced as a beginner, he had thrown away his chances, and
yet he had recovered all the ground he had lost. More than once he
caught himself watching Ricordo's dark features. The fez which
surmounted his face made him look sinister. The black beard and
moustache covered his mouth, but he fancied a mocking smile playing
around his lips. The man impressed him as a mystery. Sometimes he found
himself thinking of him as an Englishman, but again strange fancies
flitted through his mind concerning him. He pictured him away in desert
places, dreaming of dark things.

"Anyhow, I can't win," said Purvis. "The best I can do is to halve the
match with you, Mr. Ricordo."

"But I have a chance of winning," said Sprague. "By the way, signore,
we've had nothing on the game. What do you say to a stake on this hole?"

"No, Mr. Sprague, I never play for stakes, except the stake of life."

"What do you mean