Clovis swore horribly under his breath; the miracle was an obvious misfire.

It was in the hall the next morning after a late breakfast that Clovis had his final inspiration as he stood engaged in coaxing rust spots from an old putter.

“Where is Miss Martlet?” he asked the butler, who was at that moment crossing the hall.

“Writing letters in the morning-room, sir,” said Sturridge, announcing a fact of which his questioner was already aware.

“She wants to copy the inscription on that old basket-hilted sabre,” said Clovis, pointing to a venerable weapon hanging on the wall. “I wish you’d take it to her; my hands are all over oil. Take it without the sheath, it will be less trouble.”