Excerpt from The Trigger of Conscience
The golf course of the Broadlawns Country Club lay basking in the mellow sunshine of a late September afternoon. Vivid coats and sweaters made bright splashes of color, and the striped awning of the marquee upon the lawn challenged the eye as defiantly as at the commencement of the season. But the stout, white-haired old gentleman on the veranda shivered and tugged at the collar of his too youthful sport coat.
"Hello, Sowerby! Been around to-day?" A cold, rather gibing voice sounded just behind him, and President Sowerby of the Tradesmen's Bank turned irascibly in his chair, and the gaitered foot, which had rested carefully upon the veranda rail, slipped to the floor.
Just behind him stood a handsome man of about forty.
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