Then Simpson came in with a golf club in his hand.

“Great Scott,” he shouted, “you’re not still in bed?”

“I am not.  This is telepathic suggestion.  You think I’m in bed; I appear to be in bed; in reality there is no bed here.  Do go away—­I haven’t had a wink of sleep yet.”

“But, man, look at the lovely morning!”

“Simpson,” I said sternly, rolling up the sleeves of my pyjamas with great deliberation, “I have had one visitor already to-day.  His corpse is now in the candlestick.  It is an omen, Simpson.”

“I thought you’d like to come outside with me, and I’d show you my swing.”

“Yes, yes, I shall like to see that, but after breakfast, Simpson.  I suppose one of the gardeners put it up for you?  You must show me your box of soldiers and your tricycle horse, too.  But run away now, there’s a good boy.”

“My golf-swing, idiot.”

I sat up in bed and stared at him in sheer amazement.  For a long time words wouldn’t come to me.  Simpson backed nervously to the door.

“I saw the Coronation,” I said at last, and I dropped back on my pillow and went to sleep.

. . . . . .

“I feel very important,” said Archie, coming on to the lawn where Myra and I were playing a quiet game of bowls with the croquet balls.  “I’ve been paying the wages.”

“Archie and I do hate it so,” said Dahlia.  “I’m luckier, because I only pay mine once a month.”

“It would be much nicer if they did it for love,” said Archie, “and just accepted a tie-pin occasionally.  I never know what to say when I hand a man eighteen-and-six.”

“Here’s eighteen-and-six,” I suggested, “and don’t bite the half-sovereign, because it may be bad.”

“You should shake his hand,” said Myra, “and say, ’Thank you very much for the azaleas.’”

“Or you might wrap the money up in paper and leave it for him in one of the beds.”

“And then you’d know whether he had made it properly.”

“Well, you’re all very helpful,” said Archie.  “Thank you extremely.  Where are the others?  It’s a pity that they should be left out of this.”

“Simpson disappeared after breakfast with his golf-clubs.  He is in high dudgeon—­which is the surname of a small fish—­because no one wanted to see his swing.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Dahlia eagerly.  “Where is he?”

“We will track him down,” announced Archie.  “I will go to the stables, unchain the truffle-hounds, and show them one of his reversible cuffs.”

We found Simpson in the pig-sty.  The third hole, as he was planning it out for Archie, necessitated the carrying of the farm buildings, which he described as a natural hazard.  Unfortunately, his ball had fallen into a casual pig-sty.  It had not yet been decided whether the ball could be picked out without penalty—­the more immediate need being to find the blessed thing.  So Simpson was in the pig-sty, searching.