?"

"A game is always more than a game to me. It has destiny in it. Thus we
are playing for stakes, great stakes."

"What are they?"

"Ah, who can tell? Perhaps for heaven, perhaps for hell."

"Oh, I say!"

They were now standing on the eighteenth tee, and the green was near the
club-house. Close to the flag they saw a woman and a man.

"Do you know who that is on the green?" Ricordo asked of the caddy who
had made his tee and was moving away.

"Yes, zur; 'tes Miss Castlemaine, wot the links do belong to, and Muster
Briarfield." The lad rushed away towards the green.

"Ah!" said Ricordo, "we may be playing for the lady--who knows?"

He looked at Sprague as he spoke, and noted the pallor of his face.

"Do you know Miss Castlemaine?" asked Purvis.

"I expected to see her when I came here," said the stranger; "but, as I
said to Mr. Briarfield last night, although I have been here several
days, I have not yet had the felicity of setting eyes on her. But
fortune favours me now. Ah, we are playing for a great stake, Mr.
Sprague. Who knows?"

"Perhaps the man who is standing by her side will win her," laughed
Purvis. He hardly knew why he spoke.

"The man who is standing by may see most of the game," said Ricordo,
"but he never wins--never. It is only the man who plays who wins. Ah,
gentlemen, discussing the stakes on a tee is bad preparation for a
stroke; therefore we will dismiss the subject. Besides, I never make
wagers. Life itself is the wager."

He struck his ball, and although it flew far, it had what golfers call a
"slice" on it. It cleared the hazard, but curled away to the right of
the large green, at least twenty yards from the hole. He made no remark,
but moved aside for Sprague to play.

"You've got your chance, Sprague," said Purvis in low tones. "A good
straight shot, and you are close to the tee; it can't be more than a
hundred and eighty yards."

Sprague felt his hands tremble. He had not missed a drive for the round;
he determined he would not miss now. The stranger had made him feel that
the game _was_ a game of life. He knew not why, but it seemed to him
that the future would depend on whether he won or lost.

His ball flew through the air. It was struck, and clean and true; it
fell within ten yards of the hole.

"Good!" said Purvis, "a good putt, and you are down in two." Somehow, he
had lost interest in the game himself: all interest was centred in the
other two. Even when his ball