E. Phillips Oppenheim

“ Edgar Franks, elderly, large, and florid, with a mass of flaxen hair only slightly streaked with gray, a transatlantic millionaire, and owner of the finest villa in the neighborhood of Antibes, the other tall and slim, a mere lad, whose name was Armand Toyes, and who motored down occasionally from his home somewhere in the hills behind Cagnes.
“I guess he's lying just about where I want to pitch,” the former remarked in a tone of annoyance. “That is, if it's a man at all.” ”

“ Most of them will hate it, but they dare not stay away.”
“And in the matter of my quittance?” he asked.
“Your enterprise is already arranged for,” she told him. “The message which my niece brought from the Golf Club has confirmed it.”
“It must be understood that the young lady is in no way concerned in the undertaking,” he stipulated.
The light of a supreme and angry contempt flashed for a moment in her eyes.
“Under the circumstances,” she scoffed, “conditions from you seem a little absurd. You desire your quittance, I presume. You must earn it.” ”

“ The man paid for his coffee and roll, counted his remaining franc notes, and boarded the shabby little train tram, waiting by the side of the road. Slowly and with many jolts he was transported some distance around the deep fertile basin of country lying between Cagnes and St. Jeanette in the hills. At St. Oisette he descended. There was a cluster of tiny houses, each standing in the middle of its cultivated plot of land, a café, an old church, and a rough road. He had no need to ask his way. At the corner of the road was a sign-post, “To the Villa Sabatin.” ”

“ A girl, the sole occupant of the car, descended, and came smiling to meet them. She was very young, and as she drew near it became apparent that she was unexpectedly beautiful. She was tall and slim. Her hair, which escaped bounds a little, was almost the yellow of the Rhine maidens. Her eyes were a dark brown, her eyebrows very distinct and well-defined. Her mouth was delightful; soft and with a continual disposition to develop a humorous curve. She acknowledged, with some surprise, Madame's introduction.
“Mr. Hugh Cardinge—my niece, Claire Fantenay.” ”

“ Both men lifted their voices, and the warning cry of the modern golfer rang through the sunlit stillness of the April morning. There was not the slightest movement from the object upon the green.
“We shall have to go and investigate,” the American grumbled.
The two men skirted a little clump of marsh grasses, among which were clusters of yellow irises, and made their way down the fairway toward the green. Both, in their way, were of incurious disposition, yet they quickened their pace a little as they neared their destination.
“It's a man right enough,” the younger golfer declared. ”

“ Madame reminded her.
“Sorry,” the girl replied, “I thought you'd guess. Mr. Edgar Franks, I think he calls himself—the man whom every one kowtows to because he's a millionaire. What does Armand want with millionaires?”
FOR the remainder of luncheon Madame and her niece talked on indifferent subjects, chiefly in French. ”

“ No dead man would lie like that. Hullo there!”
THE sleeper started, raised himself on his elbow and struggled to his feet. He was dressed in the rags of a French tramp or ouvrier out of work, but his attitude, under the circumstances, was unusual. He turned a dark scowling face upon the intruders as though in resentment of their interference with his slumbers.
“Queer place to choose for a bed, my man,” Mr. Edgar Franks remonstrated. “Do you know that this is a golf course, and private property?” ”

“ I have met with various misfortunes during my wanderings, but I have not been in prison.”
“Excellent!” she murmured. “For some of the others I fear. You, however, with all your faults, were always a man.”
He bowed a little ironically.
“An al fresco lunch,” he observed, watching the servants bring out a table. “I have had many on my way from Marseilles, but scarcely like this.... ”