. Squat, stout, heavy jowled--with a neck
that pushed over the back of his collar--a follower of the ring, smug,
assertive, confident. A prophet? I was not ready to admit that.

After the third bout three women and three men, following an usher,
passed along the aisle just in front of me. I recognized her instantly
in spite of the dark suit, large hat and heavy veil, for her walk
betrayed her. One of the women was Marcia Van Wyck. Followed by the
gaze of the men nearest them, they went to a box in the second tier
just around the corner of the ring where I could see the girl
distinctly. The other women of the party or the men I did not
recognize, but Marcia attracted the attention of my neighbors.

"Some dame, that," said one of them admiringly. "Know her, Charlie?"

"Naw," replied the stout man. "Swells, I reckon, friends of the
goldfish."

As the bout on the boards proceeded and the attention of those nearest
her was diverted, the girl settled into her seat and coolly removed
her veil, watching the fight calmly, now and then exchanging a word
with her companions. She _was_ beautiful, distinguished looking, but
in this moment of restraint, cold and unfeeling almost to the point of
cruelty. She looked across the space that separated us, caught my gaze
and held it, challenging, defying--with no other sign of
recognition--and presently looked away.

The preliminaries ended, there was a rustle and stir of expectation.
Men were rushing back and forth from the dressing rooms to the ring
and whispering to the master of ceremonies between his introductions
of various pugilists in a great variety of street clothes, who claimed
the right to challenge the winner of the night's heavyweight event. I
had heard many of their names during the past three weeks at the
Manor, and knowing something of the customs of the ring, was not
surprised to see Tim O'Halloran and Sagorski. It was a little free
advertising which meant much to these gentlemen and cost little.
O'Halloran grinned toothlessly, at the plaudits that greeted his name,
shuffled his feet awkwardly and bobbed down. Sagorski was not so
popular, but the crowd received him good-naturedly enough, and amid
cries of "Clancy" and "Bring on the Sailor" the Jew ungracefully
retired.

I glanced at the girl; she was smiling up into the faces of these men
as at old acquaintances. If there was any regret in her--any revulsion
at the vulgarity of this scene into which she had plunged