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The two men hesitated upon the tee, gazing down the glade towards the distant-green. Their caddies were still pointing in excitement to a motionless object stretched upon the smooth turf close to the flag. Look there! Its a man! He is dead! The players paused to consider the situation. They were oddly contrasted combatantsone, Mr. Edgar Franks, elderly, large and florid, with a mass of flaxen hair only slightly streaked with grey, a transatlantic millionaire, and owner of the finest villa in the neighbourhood 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.