visitors being denied admittance at the lodge gates. The
reporter, however, managed to gain admittance and reached Mr.
Benham's gymnasium, a palatial affair, fully equipped with all
the latest paraphernalia, where the so-called Robinson was
boxing with one of his partners. But a person who represented
himself to be Mr. Benham immediately gave orders to have the
reporter shown out of the grounds.

The life of the younger Benham has been shrouded in mystery,
but this morning after some difficulty the reporter succeeded
in finding the photographer who made the picture of Robinson
printed herewith, who at last confessed that it was faked.
Further investigation among members of an uptown club revealed
the fact that Jeremiah Benham has just passed his twenty-first
year and could therefore not be the slender, rather crusty,
sandy-haired gentleman impersonating the owner of Horsham
Manor, who was at least thirty-five.

"Slender--rather crusty!" muttered Ballard. "You! D--n the fellow!"

In order to verify the suspicion [I read on], the _Despatch_
reporter went to the office of the New York and Southwestern
Railroad and obtained without difficulty from several sources a
description of the person of Mr. Benham, which coincides in all
particulars with the so-called Jim Robinson, whom the reporter
saw at work at Horsham Manor.

There is no Jim Robinson, except in name. The opponent of
Sailor Clancy in tonight's fight is no less a person than young
Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and sportsman. It is a matter
of regret, since Mr. Benham chose, for personal reasons, to
hide his identity under another name, that the _Despatch_ could
not keep the matter secret, but the _Despatch_ is in the
business of supplying news to its patrons, news not presented
in other journals, and so important an item as this, of course,
could not be suppressed.

The murder was out. We searched the other papers. Nothing.

"A beat!" muttered Jack. "I'd like to show the fellow what a beating
is."

Jack Ballard was merely angry. I was bewildered into a state of
helplessness. What should we do? What _could_ we do? The damage was
done. Telling Jerry wouldn't help matters and might unnerve him. We
disconnected the telephone and dined at the apartment, making a
pretense of eating, nervously awaiting the h