ed into a side road, flanked on either hand by elms,
Mr. Doulton tapped on the wind-screen, and Tims pulled up. Malcolm
Sage had requested that the car be stopped a hundred yards before it
reached "The Grove," where the training quarters were situated.

"Wait for me here," he said, as he got out.

"It's the first gate on the right," said Mr. Doulton.

Walking slowly away from the car, Malcolm Sage examined with great
care the road itself. Presently he stopped and, taking from his
pocket a steel spring-measure, he proceeded to measure a portion of
the surface of the dusty roadway. Having made several entries in a
note-book, he then turned back to the car, his eyes still on the
road.

Instructing Tims to remain where he was, Malcolm Sage motioned to Mr.
Doulton to get out.

"This way," said Malcolm Sage, leading him to the extreme left-hand
side of the road. Turning into the gates of "The Grove," they walked
up the drive towards the house. In front stood a group of men in
various and nondescript costumes.

As Malcolm Sage and Mr. Doulton approached, a man in a soiled white
sweater and voluminous grey flannel trousers, generously turned up
at the extremities, detached himself from the group and came towards
them. He was puffy of face, with pouched eyes and a moist skin; yet
in his day Alf Pond had been an unbeatable middle-weight, and the
greatest master of ring-craft of his time; but that was nearly a
generation ago.

In agonised silence he looked from Mr. Doulton to Malcolm Sage, then
back again to Mr. Doulton. There was in his eyes the misery of
despair.

The preliminary greetings over, Alf Pond led the way round to a
large coach-house in the rear, which had been fitted up as a
gymnasium. Here were to be seen all the appliances necessary to the
training of a boxer for a great contest, including a roped ring at
one end.

"He was here only yesterday." There was a world of tragedy and
pathos in Alf Pond's tone. Something like a groan burst from the
sparring-partners.

With a quick, comprehensive glance, Malcolm Sage seemed to take in
every detail.

"It's a bad business, Pond," said Mr. Doulton, who found the mute
despair of these hard-living, hard-hitting men rather embarrassing.

"What'd I better do?" queried Alf Pond.

"I've put the whole matter in Mr. Sage's hands," said Mr. Doulton.
"He'll find him, if anyone can."

A score of eyes were turned speculatively upon Malcolm Sage. In none
was there the