Archie looked uncomfortable. He gazed out to sea with something of embarrassment.
"Well, as a matter of fact, old thing, to be absolutely frank, I, as it were, did!"
"Not badly?"
"Well, yes! I rather fancy I put it across him with some vim and not a little emphasis. To be perfectly accurate, I licked him by ten and eight."
"But you promised me you would let him beat you to-day. You know how pleased it would have made him."
"I know. But, light of my soul, have you any idea how dashed difficult it is to get beaten by your festive parent at golf?"
"Oh, well!" Lucille sighed. "It can't be helped, I suppose." She felt in the pocket of her sweater. "Oh, there's a letter for you. I've just been to fetch the mail. I don't know who it can be from. The handwriting looks like a vampire's. Kind of scrawly."
Archie inspected the envelope. It provided no solution.
"That's rummy! Who could be writing to me?"
"Open it and see."
"Dashed bright scheme! I will. Herbert Parker. Who the deuce is Herbert Parker?"
"Parker? Father's valet's name was Parker. The one he dismissed when he found he was wearing his shirts."
"Do you mean to say any reasonable chappie would willingly wear the sort of shirts your father? I mean to say, there must have been some mistake."
"Do read the letter. I expect he wants to use your influence with father to have him taken back."
