Burns's backer.

"I told Pond to do nothing and tell no one," said Mr. Doulton, in
conclusion, "and when I left my rooms my man was trying to get
through to Papwith to ask him to keep the story to himself."

Malcolm Sage nodded approval.

"Now, what's to be done?" He looked at Malcolm Sage with the air of
a man who has just told a doctor of his alarming symptoms, and
almost breathlessly awaits the verdict.

"Breakfast, a shave, then we'll motor down to Stainton," and Malcolm
Sage proceeded to fill his briar, his whole attention absorbed in
the operation.

A moment later Rogers entered with a fresh supply of eggs and bacon.
Mr. Doulton shook his head. Instinctively his hand had gone up to
his unshaven chin. It was probably the first time in his life that
he had sat at table without shaving. He prided himself upon his
personal appearance. In his younger days he had been known as "Dandy
Doulton."

"The car in half an hour, Rogers," said Malcolm Sage, as he rose
from the table. "When you've finished," he said, turning to Mr.
Doulton, "Rogers will give you hot water, a razor and anything else
you want. By the time you have shaved I shall be ready."

"But don't you see----Think what it----" began Mr. Doulton.

"An empty stomach neither sees nor thinks," was Malcolm Sage's
oracular retort, and he went over to the window and seated himself
at his writing-table.

For the next half-hour he was engaged with his correspondence, and
in telephoning instructions to his office.

By the time Mr. Doulton had breakfasted and shaved, the car was at
the door.

During the run to Stainton both men were silent. Mr. Doulton was
speculating as to what would happen at the Olympia on the following
night if Burns failed to appear, whilst Malcolm Sage was occupied
with thoughts, the object of which was to prevent such a catastrophe.

"They're sure to say it's a yellow streak," Mr. Doulton burst out on
one occasion; but, as Malcolm Sage took no notice of the remark, he
subsided into silence, and the car hummed its way along the
Portsmouth Road.

Burns's training-quarters were situated at Stain' ton, near
Guildford. Here, under the vigilant eye of Alf Pond, and with the
help of a large retinue of sparring-partners, he was getting himself
into what had come to be called "Burns's condition," which meant
that he would enter the ring trained to the minute. Never did
athlete work more conscientiously than Charley Burns.

As the car turn