PROSPERITY and the sea had deserted Stroan together. As the waves receded, leaving a bare stretch of sand where once whole fleets had ridden at anchor, the once flourishing town had dwindled and sunk, in spite of valiant struggles to revive and retain her ancient supremacy.
In the length and breadth of the land no place could be found so sleepy, so much behind the times, so tortuous of street and so moss-grown of stone, as Stroan had become, when, by a happy chance, the game of golf came down from the North and established itself as the fashion. Then somebody discovered that the bare and unproductive sands between Stroan and the sea made excellent “links;” visitors began to arrive and to put up at a brand-new hotel built expressly for their accommodation, and a little breath of active life began to stir once more in the narrow, winding streets.
Among the visitors, one warm September, came down from London three friends, who tempered their devotion to golf by various other pursuits, each according to his inclination.
Otto Conybeare, the eldest of the three, was a journalist, who had aspirations to literature of a less ephemeral sort. He used his holiday by trying his hand at both prose and poetry, of which his two companions offered trenchant if not discriminating criticism. He was a tall, thin, dark-skinned man, with clean-cut, aquiline features, and was looked upon by the two others as their champion and social leader.
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