Since then, month in and month out, day after day, in patient hope, the two discredited members of the educated community of Stockbridge may be seen, accompanied by caddies, toiling around the links in a desperate belief that the miracle that would restore them to standing may be repeated.  Each time as they arrive nervously at the first tee and prepare to swing, something between a chuckle and a grin runs through the assemblage, while the left eyes contract waggishly, and a murmuring may be heard,

“Even threes.”

* * * * *

The Stockbridge golf-links is a course of ravishing beauty and the Housatonic River, as has been said, goes wriggling around it as though convulsed with merriment.

A MAN OF NO IMAGINATION

I

Inspector Frawley, of the Canadian Secret Service, stood at attention, waiting until the scratch of a pen should cease throughout the dim, spacious office and the Honorable Secretary of Justice should acquaint him with his desires.

He held himself deferentially, body compact, eyes clear and steady, face blank and controlled, without distinction, without significance, a man mediocre as a crowd.  His hands were joined loosely behind his back; his glance, without deviating, remained persistently on the profile of the Honorable Secretary, as though in that historic room the human note alone could compel his curiosity.

The thin squeak of the pen faded into the silences of the great room.  The Secretary of Justice ran his fingers over his forehead, looked up, and met the Inspector’s gaze—­fixed, profound, and mathematical.  With a sudden unease he pushed back his chair, troubled by the analysis of his banal man, who, in another turn of Fate, might pursue him as dispassionately as he now stood before him for his commands.  With a few rapid strides he crossed the room, lit a cigar, blew into the swirl of smoke this caprice of his imagination, and returned stolidly, as became a man of facts and figures.

Flinging himself loosely in an easy chair, he threw a rapid glance at his watch, locked his fingers, and began with the nervous directness of one who wishes to be rid of formalities: 

“Well, Inspector, you returned this morning?”

“An hour ago, sir.”

“A creditable bit of work, Inspector Frawley—­the department is pleased.”

“Thank you indeed, sir.”

“Does the case need you any more?”

“I should say not, sir—­no, sir.”

“You are ready to report for duty?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“How soon?”

“I think I’m ready now, sir—­yes, sir.”

“Glad to hear it, Inspector, very glad.  You’re the one man I wanted.”  As though the civilities had been sufficiently observed, the Secretary stiffened in his chair and continued rapidly:  “It’s that Toronto affair; you’ve read the details.  The government lost $350,000.  We caught four of the gang, but the ringleader got away with the money.  Have you studied it?  What did you make of it?  Sit down.”