to be eager to get to his
rooms. Arrived there, he sat for a long time staring into vacancy. His
eyes were no longer half closed, but were wide open, and there was an
expression which, had Olive Castlemaine seen, would have made her
shudder. For in them was the fierce glare of a madman. The old look of
cynical melancholy, or placid indifference, was gone. He was no longer a
fatalist philosopher, the thoughtful Eastern gentleman who laughed
quietly at conventional notions. His hands clenched and unclenched
themselves, his features worked with passion. Presently he rose and
paced the room; it seemed as though the volcanic passions of his being
could no longer be repressed; his whole body trembled, his eyes became
almost lurid.

"She has forgotten, forgotten," he said presently. "She is happy as Lady
Bountiful, and she has half made up her mind to marry that heavy-headed,
heavy-limbed squire. But----"

He stopped speaking and threw himself into a chair again.

"I am invited up to the great house," he continued presently. "There I
shall meet--who knows?"

He turned to a mirror, and looked at himself long and steadily. At first
there was a curious look in his eyes, as though he wanted to be sure
about something; but presently the look of curiosity changed to one of
satisfaction.

When he went down to the dining-room, and mingled with the other guests,
his face was perfectly placid again, while his eyes became half closed,
as though he had not enough interest in life to open them wide.

CHAPTER XXIII

SPRAGUE'S EXPLANATION

Meanwhile Purvis and Sprague sat in the golf club-house eating the chops
that the caretaker's wife had cooked for them. They had been very silent
during the early part of the meal, and seemed to be intent either on the
fare that was set before them, or on the moorland, which they could see
from the windows of the dining-room.

"I say, Purvis, what do you think of him?"

"Of whom?"

"You know. Don't you think he was laughing at us during the early part
of the game?"

"Why?"

"Why, just think. For the first few holes he played like a twenty-seven
handicap man, or even worse than that. Then suddenly--why, you saw for
yourself. I played a good game, and so did you; but where were we? He
might have been a first-class professional. What do you think he meant
by it?"

"Probably nothing. I should say he is one of those remarkable fellows
about whom one hears sometimes, but seldom sees,