thout pain or suffering. It must have been heart disease."

But Viola Carwell never heard the last words, for she really fainted
this time, and Captain Poland laid her gently down on the soft, green
grass.

"Better get the doctor for her," he advised Bartlett. "She'll need him,
if her father doesn't." As Harry Bartlett turned aside, waving back
the curiosity seekers that were already leaving the former scene of
excitement for the latest, LeGrand Blossom came up. He seemed very cool
and not at all excited, considering what had happened.

"I will look after Miss Carwell," he said.

"Perhaps you had better see to Mr. Carwell--Mr. Carwell's remains,
Blossom," suggested Captain Poland. "Miss Carwell will be herself very
soon. She has only fainted. Her father is dead.

"Dead? Are you sure?" asked LeGrand Blossom, and his manner seemed a
trifle more naturally excited.

"Dr. Baird says so. You'd better go to him. He may want to ask some
questions, and you were more closely associated with Carwell than any of
the rest of us."

"Very well, I'll look after the body," said the secretary. "Did the
doctor say what killed him?"

"No. That will be gone into later, I dare say. Probably heart disease;
though I never knew he had it," said Bartlett.

"Nor I," added Blossom. "I'd be more inclined to suspect apoplexy. But
are you sure Miss Carwell will be all right?"

"Yes," answered Captain Poland, who had raised her head after sprinkling
in her face some water a caddy brought in his cap. "She is reviving."

Dr. Baird came up just then and gave her some aromatic spirits of
ammonia.

Viola opened her eyes. There was no comprehension in them, and she
looked about in wonder. Then, as her benumbed brain again took up its
work, she exclaimed:

"Oh, it isn't true! It can't be true! Tell me it isn't!"

"I am sorry, but it seems to be but too true," said Captain Poland
gently. "Did he ever speak of trouble with his heart, Viola?"

"Never, Gerry. He was always so well and strong."

"You had better come to the clubhouse," suggested Bartlett, and she went
with them both.

A little later the body of Horace Carwell was carried to the "nineteenth
hole"--that place where all games are played over again in detail as the
contestants put away their clubs.

A throng followed the silent figure, borne on the shoulders of some
grounds workmen, but only club members were admitted to the house. And
among them buzzed talk of the tragedy that