least ray of hope. All had now made up their minds
that Jefferson would win the fight by default.

Slowly and methodically Malcolm Sage drew the story of Burns's
disappearance from Alf Pond, the sparring-partners occasionally
acting as a chorus.

When all had been told, Malcolm Sage gazed for some moments at the
finger-nails of his left hand.

"You were confident he would win?" he asked at length.

"Confident!" There was incredulity and wonder in Alf Pond's voice.
Then, with a sudden inspiration, "Look at Kid!" he cried--"look at
him!" and he indicated with a nod a fair-haired giant standing on
his right.

Malcolm Sage looked.

The man's face showed the stress and strain of battle. His nose had
taken on something of the quality of cubism, his right eye was out
of commission, and there was an ugly purple patch on his left cheek,
and his right ear looked as if a wasp had stung it.

"He did that in one round, and him the third. Kid asked for it, and
he got it, same as Jeff would," explained Alf Pond proudly, a
momentary note of elation in his voice. There was also something of
pride in the grin with which Kid stood the scrutiny of the others.

"Do you know of any reason why Burns should have left his room?"
Malcolm Sage looked from one to the other interrogatingly.

"There wasn't any," was Alf Pond's response, and the others nodded
their concurrence.

"He knew no one in the neighbourhood?"

"No one to speak of. A few local gents would drop in occasional to
see how he was getting on, and then a lot o' newspaper chaps came
down from London." There was that in Alf Pond's tone which seemed to
suggest that in his opinion such questions were foolish.

"Did he receive any letters or telegrams yesterday?" was the next
question.

"Letters!" Alf Pond laughed sardonically. "Shoals of 'em. He'd turn
'em all over to Sandy Lane," indicating a red-headed man on the
right.

"He wasn't much at writing letters," said Sandy Lane, by way of
explanation.

"His hands were made for better things," cried Alf Pond scornfully,
and the sparring-partners nodded their agreement.

"Did he turn over to you the _whole_ of his correspondence?" asked
Malcolm Sage, turning to Sandy Lane.

"Sometimes he'd keep a letter," broke in Alf Pond, "but not often.
Sort of personal," he added, as if to explain the circumstance.

"From a woman, perhaps?" suggested Malcolm Sage, taking off his hat
and stroking the back of his head.

"Woman!" c