on opened his mouth to speak, then
closed it again and gazed at Malcolm Sage, who, having superimposed
upon the butter a delicate amber film of marmalade, proceeded to cut
up the toast into a series of triangles. Apparently it was the only
thing in life that interested him.

For weeks past the British and American sporting world had thought
and talked of nothing but the forthcoming fight between Charley
Burns and Bob Jefferson for the heavyweight championship of the
world. The event was due to take place two days hence at the Olympia
for a purse of 40,000 pounds offered by Mr. Montague Doulton, the
prince of impresarios.

Never had a contest been looked forward to with greater eagerness
than the Burns v. Jefferson match. A great change had come over
public opinion in regard to prize-fighting, thanks to the elevating
influence of Mr. Doulton. It was no longer referred to as
"brutalising" and "debasing." Refined and nice-minded people found
themselves mildly interested and patriotically hopeful that Charley
Burns, the British champion, would win. In two years Mr. Doulton had
achieved what the National Sporting Club had failed to do in a
quarter of a century.

Long and patiently he had laboured to bring about this match, which
many thought would prove the keystone to the arch of Burns's fame,
incidentally to that of the impresario himself.

"And now he's disappeared--clean gone." Mr. Doulton almost sobbed.

"Tell me."

Malcolm Sage looked up from his plate, the last triangle of toast
poised between finger and thumb.

In short staccatoed sentences, like bursts from a machine-gun, Mr.
Doulton proceeded to tell his story.

That morning at six o'clock, when Alf Pond, Burns's trainer, had
entered his room to warn him that it was time to get up, he found it
unoccupied. At first he thought that Burns had gone down before him;
but immediately his eye fell on the bed, and he saw that it had not
been slept in, he became alarmed.

Going to the bedroom door, he had shouted to the sparring-partners,
and soon the champion's room was filled with men in various stages
of deshabille.

Only for a moment, however, had they remained inactive. At Alf
Pond's word of command they had spread helter-skelter over the house
and grounds, causing the early morning air to echo with their shouts
for "Charley."

When at length he became assured that Burns had disappeared, Alf
Pond telephoned first to Mr. Doulton and then to Mr. Papwith,