The House on the River by Fred M. White

Enderby turned his back upon the Sandmouth golf links with rage and bitterness in his heart. The possession of the Gold Cup had grown to be something of an obsession with him, and the loss of it at the hand of some obscure golfer from an out of the way Scotch course had wounded him deeply. He had had it almost within his grasp, he had never played better in his life, and but for the intrusion of this outsider everything would have gone his way. He turned his back upon his companions and drove in solitary state to the station. He would have taken a carriage to himself if possible, but just at the last moment a little knot of excited golfers got into his compartment, and all of them began talking at once. Evidently something had happened in the Club House after Enderby had left it, and it was some little time before he began to grasp the cause of all the turmoil.

"I tell you it's a fact," the man opposite him cried. "I had it from Maltby, who has played on every course in Scotland. He ain't much of a performer, but he knows more about clubs and players than any man in England. And he only spotted it quite by accident, he is prepared to take his oath that Edwards is an assumed name, and that the man who won the Gold Cup to-day is no other than our old friend, Michel Quint."