cerned as
ever. I tried to appear likewise. As a matter of fact, I wanted to win.
Not because of the possible prize, I cared little for that, but for the
pleasure of winning against him. We drove from the ninth tee, each got
a long brassy shot which put us on the edge of the green, and then
strolled up the hill together.

"I say, Knowles," he observed; "I haven't finished telling you of my
Paris experience, have I. Odd coincidence, by Jove! I was telling young
Bayliss about it just now and he thought it odd, too. I was--some other
chaps and I drifted into the Abbey over in Paris a week or so ago and
while we were there a girl came out and sang. She was an extremely
pretty girl, you understand, but that wasn't the extraordinary part of
it. She was the image--my word! the very picture of your niece, Miss
Morley. It quite staggered me for the moment. Upon my soul I thought it
was she! She sang extremely well, but not for long. I tried to get near
her--meant to speak to her, you know, but she had gone before I reached
her. Eh! What did you say?"

I had not said anything--at least I think I had not. He misinterpreted
my silence.

"Oh, you mustn't be offended," he said, laughing. "Of course I knew
it wasn't she--that is, I should have known it if I hadn't been so
staggered by the resemblance. It was amazing, that resemblance. The
face, the voice--everything was like hers. I was so dotty about it that
I even hunted up one of the chaps in charge and asked him who the
girl was. He said she was an Austrian--Mademoiselle Juno or Junotte or
something. That ended it, of course. I was a fool to imagine anything
else, of course. But you would have been a bit staggered if you had
seen her. And she didn't look Austrian, either. She looked English or
American--rather! I say, I hope I haven't hurt your feelings, old chap.
I apologize to you and Miss Morley, you understand. I couldn't help
telling you; it was extraordinary now, wasn't it."

I made some answer. He rattled on about that sort of thing making one
believe in the Prisoner of Zenda stuff, doubles and all that. We reached
the green. My ball lay nearest the pin and it was his putt. He made
it, a beauty, the ball halting just at the edge of the cup. My putt
was wild. He holed out on the next shot. It took me two and I had to
concentrate my thought by main strength even then. The hole and match
were his.

He was very decent about it, proclaimed himself lucky, declared I had,
g