how many millions of dollars
he was worth.

His wife had died years ago and his only daughter was at home in
Baltimore.

Altogether, he was a new and delightful type to one like me,--a young
man fresh from his ancestral roof in the north of staid and
conventional old England.

He was healthy, vigorous, and as keen as the edge of a razor.

On and on he talked, telling me of himself, his work and his projects.

I got to wondering if he were merely setting the proverbial sprat; but
the sprat in his case proved the whale. Every moment I expected him to
ask me for some confidences in return, but on this point Mr. K. B.
Horsfal was silent.

We discovered our golfing ground, which proved to be a fairly good,
little, nine-holed country course, rough and full of natural hazards.

K. B. Horsfal could play golf, that I soon found out. He entered into
his game with the enthusiasm and grim determination which I imagined he
displayed in everything he took a hand in.

He seldom spoke, so intent was he on the proper placing of his feet and
the proper adjustment of his hands and his clubs.

Three times we went round that course and three times I had the
pleasure of beating him by a margin. He envied me my full swing and my
powerful and accurate driving; he studied me every time I approached a
green and he scratched his head at some of my long putts; but, most of
all, he rhapsodised on my manner of getting out of a hole.

"Man,--if I only had that trick of yours in handling the mashie and the
niblick, I could do the round a stroke a hole better, for there isn't a
rut, or a tuft, or a bunker in any course that I seem to be able to
keep out of."

I showed him the knack of it as it had been taught me by an old
professional at Saint Andrews. K. B. Horsfal was in ecstasies, if a
two-hundred-pound, keen, brusk, American business man ever allows
himself such liberties.

Nothing would please him but that we should go another round, just to
test out his new acquisition and give him the hang of the thing.

To his supreme satisfaction,--although I again beat him by the same
small margin,--he reduced his score for the round by eight strokes.

On our journey back to the city, he began to talk again, but on a
different tack this time.

"George,--you'll excuse me,--but, if I were you I would put that signet
ring you are wearing in your pocket."

I looked down at it and reddened, for my ring was manifestly old, as it
was manifes