trokes and those of his
opponents. The game was all but over.

"I wonder if there can be anything the matter with our car?" mused
Viola, as she saw the smoke growing denser. "Dad's won, so I'm going
over to see. Perhaps that chauffeur--"

She did not finish the sentence. She turned to look back at her father
once more, and saw him make the putt that won the game at the last
hole. Then, to her horror she saw him reel, throw up his hands, and fall
heavily in a heap, while startled cries reached her ears.

"Oh! Oh! What has happened?" she exclaimed, and deadly fear clutched at
her heart--and not without good cause.

CHAPTER II. THE NINETEENTH HOLE

For several seconds after Mr. Carwell fell so heavily on the putting
green, having completed the last stroke that sent the white ball into
the cup and made him club champion, there was not a stir among the other
players grouped about him; nor did the gallery, grouped some distance
back, rush up. The most natural thought, and one that was in the minds
of the majority, was that the clubman had overbalanced himself in making
his stance for the putt shot, and had fallen. There was even a little
thoughtless laughter from some in the gallery. But it was almost
instantly hushed, for it needed but a second glance to tell that
something more serious than a simple fall had occurred.

Or if it was a fall caused by an unsteady position, taken when he
made his last shot, it had been such a heavy one that Mr. Carwell was
overlong in recovering from it. He remained in a huddled heap on the
short-cropped, velvety turf of the putting green.

Then the murmurs of wonder came, surging from many throats, and the
friends of Mr. Carwell closed around to help him to his feet-to render
what aid was needed. Among them were Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett,
and as the latter stepped forward he glanced up, for an instant, at the
blue sky.

Far above the Maraposa golf links circled a lone osprey on its way to
the inlet or ocean. Rather idly Bartlett wondered if it was the same one
he and Captain Poland had seen dart down and kill the fish just before
the beginning of the big match.

"What's the matter, Horace? Sun too much for you?" asked Major Wardell,
as he leaned over his friend and rival. "It is a bit hot; I feel it
myself. But I didn't think it would knock you out. Or are you done up
because you beat me? Come--"

He ceased his rather railing talk, and a look came over his face that