Mr. Harding sometimes calls him “Jim.”  That goes to prove that Carter has known the Hardings for a long time.  Harding once spoke of knowing Carter’s father.

That is not what worries me.  It is Carter’s air and whole attitude which puts me on guard.  Carter must know, John Henry Smith, that we pay an unusual amount of attention to Miss Harding, and sometimes I almost imagine he has surmised what I have confessed to you, but it does not seem to annoy or concern him in the least.  It is as if he knew just how far we can go.  It strikes me as the confidence bred of assured supremacy, but, of course, I may be in error, and sincerely hope I am, for your sake as well as mine.

Carter and Miss Harding are much together.  They take long walks, and both seem very happy in one another’s company.

I stumbled across them last evening while looking for a lost ball in the old graveyard.  They were on a scat under a weeping willow tree, and were sitting very close together.  Carter was reading something and she was looking over his shoulder.  They were laughing when they looked up and saw me poking about in the grass with my club.

“Hello, Smith!” drawled Carter, looking at me through that monocle of his.  “Lost your ball?  How many times must I tell you that the proper way to play this hole is to drive over this sacred spot and not into it?”

Miss Harding drew slightly away from him when she saw me—­at least I imagined so—­and smiled and looked innocent as could be.

[Illustration:  “Miss Harding ... smiled and looked innocent as could be”]

What I am getting at, John Henry Smith, is this:  We would not dare ask Miss Harding to sit with us in such a lonely and secluded spot, and I think we would have been more embarrassed than was Carter at so unexpected an interruption.  It simply goes to prove that—­well, I don’t know just what it does prove.

Chilvers told me a year ago he had heard Carter was engaged to be married to a very pretty and immensely wealthy girl.  I did not think much of it at the time, having only passing interest in whether Carter married or remained single.  The other day I asked Chilvers if he had heard anything more about Carter’s engagement, and he looked at me rather oddly and said he had not.  He said his wife might know something about it, and advised me to ask her or Carter.

Suppose they were engaged, John Henry Smith?  That would settle it, you say.  You quit too easily.  If you desert me in this extremity I shall go ahead on my own account.  I love her; I must have her!  Let Carter fall in love with someone else!

For some malignant reason this man Carter has persistently stood between me and the realisation of my cherished ambitions.  He has won cup after cup and medal after medal which would have fallen to me were it not for his devilish combination of skill and luck.  But he shall not thwart my love!  He shall not; I swear it; he shall not!  Smile, John Henry Smith, you do not love her as I do.