hand he felt gently
of the top of Mr. Gubb's head. He turned Mr. Gubb's head gently to the
right. "So!" he exclaimed: "Dot vos goot!" He raised the cup above his
head and brought it down on top of Mr. Gubb's head in the exact spot
he had selected. For two moments Mr. Gubb made motions with his hands
resembling those of a swimmer, and then he collapsed in a heap. The
kindly looking old German-American gentleman, seeing he was quite
unconscious, tucked the golf cup under his own arm, and waddled slowly
down the path to the club gates.

Ten minutes later a small automobile drove up and young Dr. Anson
Briggs hopped out. Mr. Gubb was just getting to his feet, feeling the
top of his head with his hand as he did so.

"Here!" said Dr. Briggs. "You must not do that!"

"Why can't I do it?" Mr. Gubb asked crossly. "It is my own personal
head, and if I wish to desire to rub it, you are not concerned in the
occasion whatever."

"Oh, rub your head if you want to!" exclaimed the doctor. "I say you
must not stand up. A man that has just had a fit must not stand up."

"Who had a fit?" asked Philo Gubb.

"You did," said Dr. Briggs. "I am told you had a very bad fit, and
fell and knocked your head against the building. You're dazed. Lie
down!"

"I prefer to wish to stand erect on my feet," said Mr. Gubb firmly.
"Where's my cup?"

"What cup?"

"Who told you I was suffering from the symptom of a fit?" demanded
Philo Gubb.

"Why, a short, plump little German did," said the doctor. "He sent me
here. And he gave me this to give to you."

The doctor held an envelope toward Mr. Gubb, and the detective took it
and tore it open. By the light of the window he read:--

Rec'd of J. Jones, golluf cup worth $500. P. H.
SCHRECKENHEIM.

Philo Gubb turned to Dr. Briggs.

"I am much obliged for the hastiness with which you came to relieve
one you considered to think in trouble, doctor," he said, "but fits
are not in my line of sickness, which mainly is dyspeptic to date."

"Now, what is all this?" asked the doctor suspiciously. "What is that
letter, anyway?"

"It is a clue," said Philo Gubb, "which, connected with the bump on
the top of the cranium of my skull, will, no doubt, land somebody into
jail. So good-evening, doctor."

He picked his hat from the lawn, and in his most stately manner
walked around the club-house and in at the door.

Inside the club-house, Mr. Gubb asked one of the waiters to call Mr.
Medderbrook,