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not stay behind; my fortunes were her fortunes.

I was taken. The crafty Henry, summoning all his might, the full resources of a kingdom, had cornered me at last. I was taken, red with battle, and yielding only when the rest had died or melted away in ignominious flight. I had never deserted my wretched followers; it was they who had forsaken me. Nor did I cry for mercy and make abject confession, as monsignor had stated, copying the passage verbatim from Hall's chronicle. captive, I dared Henry to do his worst, and, when I mounted the scaffold, Bettina wept. She was not alone in this, apart from the weeping thousands in the book. Many people since have told me how they were shaken.

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Yet Bettina was the first to weep over that ending. I had been granted permission to say good-by to her before I left my dungeon. That, too, was another memorable scene. "The rest of my life will be devoted to your memory," cried sobbing Katherine, and instead of four husbands, she vowed herself to espouse religion until the hour when wc, so faithful on earth, should find reunion. My humble birth, for I was still the Flemish boatman's son,-my hazardous imposture, were all long since wiped out by a true grandeur. I may have sinned, but the great sins, once acknowledged, are counted for righteousness in such as I. There had at least been no concealment from the woman I loved.

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was still weeping, and I, for sheer happiness, had tears to match.

We were alone in the great library, now lighted by the gold of westering suns. She sat there in such radiance—I close my eyes and see her in that light. I open them, and kiss her tears away. We seemed like two who had gone a long and splendid journey, and learned to love each other on the road. There was no need to speak of it; our youth did all that was required. Slim hands that lay in mine, white throat which held the flower that was her face, brown hair softening to gold-you are here with me as in that late afternoon. The next day I was gone.

It would have been cruel to linger. Janvier had the book he wanted of me, and it could not have been in better hands. In England and in America he worked for it as though it had been some pet scheme of his own. He was audacious, he was magnificent. Somehow I managed to live till it came out with monsignor's name added to mine upon the title-page. He did not quarrel with my history; I fancy he regards it as his own. He took his thousand pounds, however, and his share, and more than his share, of glory. Still, there were other thousands, and now I needed no Hugh Janvier to bolster me and fit me out.

My next meeting with Bettina was in the vast saloons of Wexford House. There had been nothing but letters in between the stupidest, dearest letters! She was expecting me, and I felt pleased that in these crowded rooms I held my own. It was a vanity, a selfish thought; but "Love yourself because I love you," she had once written to me. I had obeyed her. Our secret swam in her dear eyes; she was proud of her tame lion. Monsignor himself conducted our marriage ceremony. He managed that better than he managed biography.

Alibi

By HOLWORTHY HALL
Author of "Henry of Navarre, Ohio," etc.
Illustrations by George Wright

ET it be understood that every stranger

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at Warwick is presumed innocent until he steps out on the turf. It is only when he accepts a starting-card from the caddy-master that he becomes an object of suspicion and interest. No fairway was ever seriously injured by club-house conversation, so that an alien's claim of eighty-five rests undisputed up to the point of trial; but statistics show that the man who in the grill-room prophesies eightyfive or better for his first round at Warwick generally scores one hundred and ten or worse; and this average includes

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both the golfer who can excavate more rapidly with a spoon than a longshoreman with a shovel and the experienced who ordinarily could proceed from one strategic position to another, chosen carefully in advance. They may know golf, but they don't know Warwick; and as they lag wearily to the players' entrance, they are mentally competent to appreciate the fugitive verse painted in small letters above the door. The underlying thought is one which a circuit judge is said to have conceived with respect to Miss Muller. It is n't humorous.

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Seen from the elevation of the veranda, the course is beautiful rather than suggestive of good golf; it presents the cultivated appearance of a millionaire's lawn, landscaped by the king of expert gardeners. Trees by Corot and brooks by Inness lie in a background of charming composition; vast reaches of lawn in the middle distance temper the glare of sunlight; far to the east a Maxfield Parrish harbor sleeps peacefully beneath a blanket of clouds by Elmer Garnsey. The sheer sweep of turf is nowhere marred by unsightly sand-pits; the ungainly cop-bunker is visible not at all. Save for an occasional oasis for a putting-green, an occasional direction-flag whipping in the breeze, the course might be a deer-park or a national reservation. Obviously, to the stranger on the veranda, it is too well manicured to offer sport. It is too refined. It lacks the complications without which no true golfer can be content. It should be maintained exclusively for poets and artists; surely it is n't a test course for a redblooded human being equipped with a dreadnought driver and a heavy mashy which scars the ground at every shot. Why, for a man to take turf at Warwick would be equivalent to mayhem!

But the professional who supervised the engineering was by birth a seer and a bushwhacker by education. To judge from the craftiness displayed in his handiwork, he could probably have ambushed an Apache in broad daylight in the middle of a field as level and unobstructed as a billiard-table. Not merely against par does one compete at Warwick; not against the decrepit and outlawed colonel; not even against an opponent in the flesh: the game is played against the fiendish imagination and ingenuity of Donald Ross. Witness the unexpected, hanging side-hill lies; witness the undulating greens of almost impossible keenness; witness the paucity of hazards, the infrequency of rough, the astonishing presence of both whenever a shot wanders fitfully from the line of geometrical progress. The dainty brook by Inness, the trees by Corot, so stand that to avoid them the study of triangulation

is utterly essential. That soft strip of grass, which seemed the most inconsequential species of rough, proves to be the falsest of beards concealing the identity of swale and swamp. An impenetrable morass masquerades, from the club-house, as a Japanese garden. Neither bunker nor trap impedes the player in his journey from tee to green; everywhere his gaze falls upon the natural coloring of a lawn, but in some places the blades rise three inches higher than they do in other places. So the amateur record is still seventy-five.

ON a certain particularly attractive morning in July, Mr. Robert Corbett, President, and Mr. Samuel Bowker, Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee, met in the New York office of a real-estate corporation. Five minutes later they were staring first at each other, then at the diffident gentleman who temporarily controlled their golfing destinies. This was a gentleman of tremendous ideas; one could easily discern the fact from the frown which he wore as a business adjunct, and from the ineffable forward thrust of his shoulders, which brought his chest into deserved promi

nence.

"Unfortunately-for you," said Mr. Farwell, again breaking the silence, “our purpose in conducting this company is to sell real property. The Warwick Estates is n't an eleemosynary institution in any sense of the word. Already we 've renewed the lease of the golf club two years beyond the limit we originally set; we can't renew it further. Of course, if you care to buy-"

"What I can't understand," mused Corbett, "is what prevented you from giving us a little notice."

Mr. Farwell spread his hands, intentionally expressive.

"It may have been an oversight, but you should have realized the conditions. As I said before, our business is n't to publish notices; it 's to sell real property

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"What's the price?" demanded Bowker, compressing his jaws.

"The price is five hundred thousand dollars."

"What!"

"The exact amount," said Mr. Farwell, complacently, "that we should expect to receive, gross, after developing the property and selling it at acreage figures."

"And you won't take into consideration the desirability of having the club in Warwick? You've still got three or four hundred acres. Won't the club help you sell them? Isn't it worth something to your company to keep the club alive?"

"Not a nickel," denied Mr. Farwell. "Land is land. The only price I can make is the one I quoted, and the very best I can do is to give you an option until the first of September."

"Mortgage?" asked Corbett.

"Two hundred thousand, the balance in cash."

"But, look here, you must know the status of the club tract. In the market it is n't worth more than sixty per cent. of what you ask for it. We could n't get a second mortgage of any size; you 're virtually demanding three hundred and fifty thousand cash!"

"Precisely," agreed Mr. Farwell, without enthusiasm.

Bowker reflected upon the terms.

"Out of the question," he stated flatly. "The club is n't a bank, Mr. Farwell. We 've very few wealthy members. We want men who play golf; it 's been something of a strain to pay the overhead as it is. Even so, I think we might come to some agreement on the basis of an increased rental-"

"No," said Mr. Farwell, yawning slightly; "we 're selling the property. It's immaterial whether you or some one else takes it off our hands; but we 're selling. If you want a little leeway, if you want to put it up to your members, we'll arrange for a formal option. Unless you decide to buy, we shall have to make arrangements to begin developing in the near future. Just one thing more: please don't come to us with counter-propositions, because we can't entertain them. We'll take a first mortgage at two hun

dred thousand, and four hundred thousand cash. If you like, we 'll undertake to secure a second mortgage for you on commission, but we can't carry it ourselves. That, I think, covers it." Corbett drew a long, long breath. "It seems so. I suppose you want real money for your option, too?" Mr. Farwell was pained.

"My dear Mr. Corbett, you misunderstand me completely. This is nothing but a straightforward business plan to sell land which we own; you 're taking it as a personal matter. On the contrary, you can have your option at the minimum legal consideration—one dollar, technical, nom

inal."

"Have it drawn," said Bowker.

"Now? Why sha'n't I mail it to you?" "We 'd better take it with us," said Bowker. "We 'd better show it to the governing board. If we told 'em your price, and had nothing in the way of proof, they'd think we were joking."

"Just as you like," conceded Mr. Farwell, smiling faintly. "If you'll wait perhaps ten minutes-" He summoned a stenographer; Corbett looked at Bowker, Bowker glared at Corbett.

"I was going out to play," said the president under his breath. "Wonder if we ought to go down town and see the banks?"

"Wait until it rains," advised Bowker. "Too good a day to see bankers. Are you made up for the afternoon?"

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"I have n't had a club in my hand for two weeks, but I 'll do about ninety."

"Bet you the caddy hire you don't." "No-o," declined the president, cautiously; "I have n't touched a club for so long. But I'll tell you what I will do: I'll bet the caddy hire you are n't under a hundred."

"No," said Bowker. "You see, I just bought a new mid-iron; I 'm likely to be

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By the first of August the Warwick Club was gloomily contemplating the prospect of dissolution. Committees and subcommittees were appointed and disbanded. with the celerity which obtains in Balkan politics; money was subscribed, pledges were taken, promises were made, and the total amount involved was n't a quarter of the amount required. Bowker had toured the banks, and returned in discomfiture.

"They all admit," he said savagely, "that in a few years the land will be worth that much, but they can't see it now. I'm through, fellows. I've done everything I can. It's no use. The best thing for us to do is to get our names up for some other club as soon as we can."

"I'm afraid so," granted Horton, the club champion. "There really was n't much use trying; you can't raise four hundred thousand among four hundred members in a club of this kind."

"When you 're all through talking," said Corbett, "I'll tell you something I've been holding back. I know one man a person-who might finance the whole thing for us; he has the money."

"Don't wake me up," said Bowker, softly.

"Perfectly true," insisted Corbett. "And the reason I'm waiting is because I don't know what to do."

"It ought to be easy," said Horton. "Simply go in and ask him for a loan of four hundred thousand for a few years. What 's simpler than that?"

"Sarcasm aside," reprimanded the president, "nothing could be simpler than that."

"You mean you know a possible way out of this mess, and you have n't even begun to negotiate?"

"That 's exactly what I mean. The man happens to be a sort of relative of my wife. Nine or ten million, I supposeretired a few years ago. He was in steel. Incidentally, he 's buying nothing but realestate just now."

Bowker sat up.

"Well, what have you been doing?"

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