o carried a small black
bag.

"They've got a doctor, I think," said Gerry. "Not Dr. Rowland, though.
However, I dare say it will be all right."

A fit of trembling seized Viola, and it was so violent that, for a
moment, Captain Poland thought she would fall. He had to hold her close,
and he wished there was some place near at hand to which he might
take her. But the clubhouse was some distance away, and there were no
conveyances within call.

However, Viola soon recovered her composure, or at least seemed to, and
smiled up at him, though there was no mirth in it.

"I'll be all right now," she said. "Please take me to him. He will ask
for me as soon as he recovers."

The young doctor had made his way through the throng and now knelt
beside the prostrate man. The examination was brief--a raising of the
eyelids, an ear pressed over the heart, supplemented by the use of the
stethoscope, and then the young medical man looked up, searching the
ring of faces about him as though seeking for some one in authority to
whom information might be imparted. Then he announced, generally:

"He is dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed several.

"Hush!" cautioned Harry Bartlett "She'll hear you!"

He looked in the direction whence Viola and Captain Poland were
approaching the scene.

"Are you sure, Dr. Baird?" he asked.

"Positive. The heart action has entirely stopped."

"But might that not be from some cause--some temporary cause?"

"Yes, but not in this case. Mr. Carwell is dead. I can do nothing for
him."

It sounded brutal, but it was only a medical man's plain statement of
the case.

"Some one must tell her," murmured Minnie Webb, who had been attracted
to the crowd, though she was not much of a golf enthusiast. "Poor Viola!
Some one must tell her."

"I will," offered Bartlett, and he made his way through a living lane
that opened for him. Then it closed again, hiding the body from sight.
Some one placed a sweater over the face that had been so ruddy, and was
now so pale.

Captain Poland, still supporting Viola on his arm, saw Bartlett
approaching. Somehow he surmised what his fellow clubman was going to
say.

"Oh, Harry!" exclaimed Viola, impulsively holding out her hands to him.
"Is he all right? Is he better?"

"I am sorry," began Harry, and then she seemed to sense what he was
going to add.

"He isn't--Oh, don't tell me he is--"

"The doctor says he is dead, Viola," answered Bartlett gently. "He
passed away wi