HE two men hesitated upon the tee, gazing down the glade toward the distant green. Their caddies were still pointing in excitement to a motionless object stretched upon the smooth turf close to the flag.
“Regardez là-bas!”
“C'est un homme!”
“Il est mort!”
The players paused to consider the situation. They were oddly contrasted combatants—one, Mr. Edgar Franks, elderly, large, and florid, with a mass of flaxen hair only slightly streaked with gray, a transatlantic millionaire, and owner of the finest villa in the neighborhood of Antibes, the other tall and slim, a mere lad, whose name was Armand Toyes, and who motored down occasionally from his home somewhere in the hills behind Cagnes.
“I guess he's lying just about where I want to pitch,” the former remarked in a tone of annoyance. “That is, if it's a man at all.”
“Whether it's a man or a bundle of rags,” his companion observed, “I'm afraid we shall have to walk the hole or send the caddies on. We might try a shout.”
Both men lifted their voices, and the warning cry of the modern golfer rang through the sunlit stillness of the April morning. There was not the slightest movement from the object upon the green.
“We shall have to go and investigate,” the American grumbled.
The two men skirted a little clump of marsh grasses, among which were clusters of yellow irises, and made their way down the fairway toward the green. Both, in their way, were of incurious disposition, yet they quickened their pace a little as they neared their destination.
“It's a man right enough,” the younger golfer declared.
“A tramp,” his companion pronounced, “and asleep. No dead man would lie like that. Hullo there!”
HE sleeper started, raised himself on his elbow and struggled to his feet. He was dressed in the rags of a French tramp or ouvrier out of work, but his attitude, under the circumstances, was unusual. He turned a dark scowling face upon the intruders as though in resentment of their interference with his slumbers.
“Queer place to choose for a bed, my man,” Mr. Edgar Franks remonstrated. “Do you know that this is a golf course, and private property?”
“I did not know, and what does it matter?” was the none too civil reply. “I lost my way and I was overcome by sleep. In what direction does Cagnes lie?”
They pointed out the village. The man looked at them both for a moment with obvious distaste, turned away without another word, and started off.
“Well, I'm damned!” Mr. Edgar Franks exclaimed.
“Surly devil!” his young companion laughed. “A tramp, without a doubt, but fancy his not asking for anything.”
They watched him cross the links in a direct line to the village which they had indicated. He walked as though his feet were sore, but he had none of the habitual slouch of the mendicant.
“Queer that he answered us in French,” Edgar Franks remarked. “He looked English to me. His intonation was English, too.”
They strolled to the next tee and dismissed the affair from their minds.
HE tramp crossed the links, found his way out on to the road, and entered a small café on the outskirts of the village. Madame, from behind the counter, watched his approach doubtfully.
“What does Monsieur desire?” she inquired with somewhat forced politeness.
“A wash,” he replied shortly. “Afterwards some coffee.”
He understood her look, and, from a pocket in his tattered coat, drew out several franc notes. She moved to the end of the counter and opened a door.
“Out there is a basin,” she directed. “There is also water. One may wash there and afterwards the coffee shall be served.”
The man made his toilet and returned. He chose a chair out in the sunlight. His clothes remained the clothes of a scarecrow and the frown had not left his face. Nevertheless, he was a person of no ordinary type. He was apparently still young, his features had strength, his mouth was straight and resolute. His hands were hard and tanned, but shapely.
“Monsieur has come far?” the woman asked, as she served his coffee.
“Far enough,” he answered.... “Can you direct me,” he went on, after a moment's pause, “to the Villa Sabatin?”
“The Villa Sabatin?” the woman repeated. “But, yes. It is up the valley on the left. One takes the little train here, and gets out at St. Oisette.”
“It is far?” he demanded.
“Nine kilometers, perhaps,” the woman replied.