“I'm not so sure of that,” was the laughing and good-natured reply.
There was silence in the gallery while the players made ready for the last hole.
There was a sharp impact as Mr. Carwell's driver struck the little white ball and sent it sailing in a graceful curve well toward the last hole.
“A marvelous shot!” exclaimed Captain Poland. “On the green again! Another like that and he'll win the game!”
“And I can do it, too!” boasted Carwell, who overheard what was said.
The others drove off in turn, and the play reached the final stage of putting. Viola turned as though to go over and see what the trouble was among the automobiles. She looked back as she saw her father stoop to send the ball into the little depressed cup. She felt sure that he would win, for she had kept a record of his strokes and those of his opponents. The game was all but over.
“I wonder if there can be anything the matter with our car?” mused Viola, as she saw the smoke growing denser. “Dad's won, so I'm going over to see. Perhaps that chauffeur—”
She did not finish the sentence. She turned to look back at her father once more, and saw him make the putt that won the game at the last hole. Then, to her horror she saw him reel, throw up his hands, and fall heavily in a heap, while startled cries reached her ears.
“Oh! Oh! What has happened?” she exclaimed, and deadly fear clutched at her heart—and not without good cause.
CHAPTER II. THE NINETEENTH HOLE
For several seconds after Mr. Carwell fell so heavily on the putting green, having completed the last stroke that sent the white ball into the cup and made him club champion, there was not a stir among the other players grouped about him; nor did the gallery, grouped some distance back, rush up. The most natural thought, and one that was in the minds of the majority, was that the clubman had overbalanced himself in making his stance for the putt shot, and had fallen. There was even a little thoughtless laughter from some in the gallery. But it was almost instantly hushed, for it needed but a second glance to tell that something more serious than a simple fall had occurred.
Or if it was a fall caused by an unsteady position, taken when he made his last shot, it had been such a heavy one that Mr. Carwell was overlong in recovering from it. He remained in a huddled heap on the short-cropped, velvety turf of the putting green.
Then the murmurs of wonder came, surging from many throats, and the friends of Mr. Carwell closed around to help him to his feet-to render what aid was needed. Among them were Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett, and as the latter stepped forward he glanced up, for an instant, at the blue sky.
Far above the Maraposa golf links circled a lone osprey on its way to the inlet or ocean. Rather idly Bartlett wondered if it was the same one he and Captain Poland had seen dart down and kill the fish just before the beginning of the big match.
“What's the matter, Horace? Sun too much for you?” asked Major Wardell, as he leaned over his friend and rival. “It is a bit hot; I feel it myself. But I didn't think it would knock you out. Or are you done up because you beat me? Come—”
He ceased his rather railing talk, and a look came over his face that told those near him something serious had happened. There was a rush toward the prostrate man.
“Keep back, please!” exclaimed the major. “He seems to have fainted. He needs air. Is Dr. Rowland here? I thought I saw him at the clubhouse a while ago. Some one get him, please. If not—”
“I'll get him!” some one offered
“Here, give him a sip of this—it's brandy!” and an automobilist, who had come across the links from the nearest point to the highway, offered his flask.
The major unscrewed the silver top, which formed a tiny cup, and tried to let some of the potent liquor trickle between the purplish lips of the unconscious victor in the cup-winners' match. But more of the liquid was spilled on his face and neck than went into his mouth. The air reeked with the odor of it.
“What has happened? Is he hurt?” gasped Viola, who made her way through the press of people, which opened for her, till she stood close beside her father. “What is it? Oh, is he—?”
“He fell,” some one said.
“Just as he made his winning stroke,” added another.
“Oh!” and Viola herself reeled unsteadily.
“It's all right,” a voice said in her ear, and though it was in the ordinary tones of Captain Poland, to the alarmed girl it seemed as though it came from the distant peaks of the hills. “He'll be all right presently,” went on the captain, as he supported Viola and led her out of the throng.
“It's just a touch of the sun, I fancy. They've gone for a doctor.”
“Oh, but, Captain Poland—father was never like this before—he was always so strong and well—I never knew him to complain of the heat. And as for fainting—why I believe I almost did it myself, just now, didn't I?”
“Almost, yes.”
“But father never did. Oh, I must go to him!”
She struggled a little and moved away from his half encircling arm, for he had seen that her strength was failing her and had supported her as he led her away. “I must go to him!”
“Better not just now,” said Captain Poland gently. “Harry is there with him, the major and other friends. They will look after him. You had better come with me to the clubhouse and lie down. I will get you a cup of tea.”
“No! I must be with my father!” she insisted. “He will need me when he—when he revives. Please let me go to him!”
The captain saw that it was of little use to oppose her so he led her back toward the throng that was still about the prostrate player. A clubman was hurrying back with a young man who carried a small black bag.
“They've got a doctor, I think,” said Gerry. “Not Dr. Rowland, though. However, I dare say it will be all right.”
A fit of trembling seized Viola, and it was so violent that, for a moment, Captain Poland thought she would fall. He had to hold her close, and he wished there was some place near at hand to which he might take her. But the clubhouse was some distance away, and there were no conveyances within call.
However, Viola soon recovered her composure, or at least seemed to, and smiled up at him, though there was no mirth in it.
“I'll be all right now,” she said. “Please take me to him. He will ask for me as soon as he recovers.”
The young doctor had made his way through the throng and now knelt beside the prostrate man. The examination was brief—a raising of the eyelids, an ear pressed over the heart, supplemented by the use of the stethoscope, and then the young medical man looked up, searching the ring of faces about him as though seeking for some one in authority to whom information might be imparted. Then he announced, generally:
“He is dead.”
“Dead!” exclaimed several.
“Hush!” cautioned Harry Bartlett “She'll hear you!”
He looked in the direction whence Viola and Captain Poland were approaching the scene.
“Are you sure, Dr. Baird?” he asked.
“Positive. The heart action has entirely stopped.”
“But might that not be from some cause—some temporary cause?”
“Yes,