The
Lady from Long Acre

By

Victor Bridges

Author of "A Rogue by Compulsion," "The Man from Nowhere,"
"Jetsam"

Illustrated by Ray Rohn

G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1919

Copyright, 1919
BY
VICTOR BRIDGES

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

The Lady from Long Acre

CHAPTER I

"TIGER" BUGG VERSUS "LIGHTNING" LOPEZ

Lady Jocelyn sighed gently and put down her cup on the tea-table.

"I suppose, Tony," she said, "that when one gets to seventy-two, one's conscience begins to decay just as one's body does. I seem to like good people less and immoral and useless ones more. You are the only member of the family it gives me the faintest pleasure to see nowadays."

Sir Antony Raymond Fulk Desmoleyn Conway—Conway Bart., more commonly known as Tony, nodded his head.

"They are rather a stuffy lot the others, aren't they!" he answered cheerfully. "Who's been round to see you?"

"Only Laura and Henry as yet." Lady Jocelyn spoke with some thankfulness.

"Well, that's enough," observed Tony. "Ten minutes with either of them always makes me feel I want to do something improper."

"Allowing for age and infirmity," said Lady Jocelyn, "they have a rather similar effect on me."

Tony laughed. "So you have heard all about my misdeeds?"

"I would hardly go as far as that. They were only here for two hours. You may smoke you know, Tony, if you want to."

He lighted a cigarette. "Tell me, Aunt Fanny," he pleaded. "There is no pleasure in blackening the family name unless one hears what the family says about it."

"The family," remarked Lady Jocelyn, "has a good deal to say about it. They consider that not only are you wasting your own life in the most deplorable manner, but that your methods of amusing yourself are calculated to bring a certain amount of discredit upon your more distinguished relatives. Henry attributes it chiefly to the demoralizing effect of wealth; Laura thinks that you were born with naturally low tastes."

"They're both right," observed Tony placidly. "I am what Guy calls 'a menace to my order.' That's a jolly way for one's secretary to talk to one, isn't it?"

"It's the only way dear Guy can talk, and after all I daresay he is telling the truth."

"I am sure he is," said Tony. "Guy is quite incapable of telling anything else." He paused. "Was Henry referring to any recent atrocity?"

"I think your choice of friends is what distresses him chiefly. He said that your more intimate acquaintances appear to consist of prize-fighters and chauffeurs."

Tony laughed good-humouredly. "I do a bit of motor racing, you know. I suppose that's what he meant by chauffeurs. As for prize-fighters—well, somebody must have been telling him about Bugg."

"About what?" inquired Lady Jocelyn mildly.

"Bugg," repeated Tony. "'Tiger' Bugg. He's a youthful protégé of mine—a boxer. In about three years, when he's grown a bit, he'll be champion of England."

Lady Jocelyn's good-humoured face wrinkled up into a whimsical smile.

"Dear Tony," she said. "Your conversation is always so stimulating. Tell me some more about Mr. Tiger Bugg. What a name! It sounds like some kind of American butterfly."

"Oh, he spells it with two g's," said Tony. "It's a very good name in the East End of London. There have been Buggs in Whitechapel for generations."

"So I have always understood," replied Lady Jocelyn. "How did you come across this particular branch of the family?"

"It was at a boxing club off the Stepney High Street. It's a blackguard sort of place run by a Jew named Isaacs. He gets in the East End street boys, and they fight each other for nothing in the hope that some boxing promoter will see them and give them a chance. Well, one night when I was there they put up this boy Bugg against a fellow who was big enough to eat him—a chap who knew something about the game, too. Bugg was hammered nearly silly in the first round, but he came up for the second and popped in a left hook bang on the point that put the big chap to sleep for almost ten minutes. It was one of the prettiest things I've ever seen."

"It sounds delightful," said Lady Jocelyn. "Go on, Tony."

"I was so pleased with his pluck," pursued the baronet tranquilly, "that I sent for him after the show and took him out to have some supper. I thought he was precious hungry from the way he wolfed his food, and when I asked him I found he'd had nothing to eat all day except a bit of dry bread for breakfast. In addition to that he had tramped about ten miles looking for a job. Hardly what one would call a good preparation for fighting a fellow twice your size."

"It seems a most deserving case," remarked Lady Jocelyn sympathetically.

"That's what I thought," said Tony. "I had him up to Hampstead the next day and I gave him a good try out with the gloves. I saw at once that I'd got hold of something quite out of the common. He didn't know much about the science of the game, but he was just a born boxer—one of those boys who take to fighting as naturally as they do to breathing. He seemed a decent lad too in his way—a bit rough, of course, but then you couldn't expect anything else. Anyhow the end of it was I took him on, and he has been with me ever since."

"How nice!" said Lady Jocelyn. "And in what capacity does he figure in the household returns?"

Tony indulged in a smile. "I always call him my assistant secretary," he said, "just to fetch old Guy. As a matter of fact Bugg is a most useful chap. There's hardly anything he can't do. When he isn't training for a fight, we use him as a sort of maid-of-all-work."

"Oh, he still fights then?"

"Rather," said Tony. "He has never been beaten yet. Backing Bugg is my only source of income apart from the estate. I made twelve hundred pounds out of him last year."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Lady Jocelyn. "I had no idea you had a regular profession like that, Tony. What sort of people does he fight with?"

"We are open to meet any one in the world up to ten stone seven. In fact there are only about four who really matter that he hasn't met. There will be one less after to-morrow."

"What happens to-morrow?"

"Bugg is going to fight 'Lightning Lopez' at the Cosmopolitan."

"What beautiful names all these people seem to have," said Lady Jocelyn. "Who is 'Lightning Lopez'?"

"He calls himself the champion welter-weight of Europe," replied Tony a little contemptuously. "He's half an American and half a Livadian. That's why Pedro has taken him up."

"Pedro?" repeated Lady Jocelyn. "Do you mean King Pedro?"

Tony nodded. "Yes, Lopez is being backed by royalty or rather ex-royalty. We hope to have five hundred of the best out of His Majesty by to-morrow night."

"Are you a friend of Pedro's?" asked Lady Jocelyn.

"Oh, hardly that," said Tony. "He belongs to the Cosmo, you know, and I often meet him at races and first nights."

Lady Jocelyn paused for a moment.

"I remember him very well as a little boy at Portriga before the revolution," she said. "What has he grown up like?"

"Well," observed Tony, thoughtfully brushing some cigarette ash from his sleeve, "he's short and fat and dark and rather spotty, and he drinks too much."

Lady Jocelyn nodded. "Ah!" she said, "just like his poor father. Has he inherited the family weakness for female society?"

"He's a bit of a rip," said Tony. "Or rather he was. Molly Monk of the Gaiety has got hold of him now, and I think she keeps him pretty straight. She's not the sort to stand any nonsense, you know."

"I will take your word for it, Tony," said Lady Jocelyn gravely.

Tony laughed. "Well, you can, Aunt Fanny," he returned. "I've known Molly since she was a little flapper. She is the granddaughter of old Monk who used to look after the lodge at Holbeck."

Lady Jocelyn raised her eyebrows. "Dear me!" she exclaimed. "Is that so, Tony! Why I remember the old man perfectly. She must be a clever girl to have got on like she has. What a pity she couldn't be content with her profession."

"Oh, Molly's all right," said Tony carelessly. "She's straight enough as girls of that sort go. You can be quite sure she's really fond of Pedro or she wouldn't have anything to do with him."

"He didn't sound exactly lovable from your description of him," remarked Lady Jocelyn.

"Well, perhaps I didn't do him justice. He isn't such a bad fellow in his way, you know. He drinks too much and he's stupid and spoilt, but he's quite good-natured and amiable with it. I have no doubt Molly can twist him round her finger; and I suppose there's a certain attraction in having a king trotting around after you—even if he is out of a job. No doubt it annoys the other girls."

"As a bachelor, my dear boy," said Lady Jocelyn, "you have no right to be so well acquainted with feminine weaknesses." She paused. "You know you really ought to get married, Tony," she added, "if only to circulate your income."

Tony laughed. "You have hit on my one strong point as a capitalist," he said. "You ask Guy, Aunt Fanny!"

"But you can't spend forty thousand a year by yourself—surely?"

"Oh, I get a little help now and then. I don't know that I really want it though. It's wonderful what one can do with practice and a steam yacht."

"It's not nearly as wonderful as what you could do with a wife," said Lady Jocelyn. "Anyhow you ought to get married if only to please me. I shall soon be too old for travelling about, and then I shall want some really naughty children to give me an interest in life. I shall never be interested in Henry's twins: they are such dreadful little prigs."

Tony got up from his chair and taking the old lady's slender, much beringed hand raised it to his lips.

"If you feel like that, Aunt Fanny," he said, "I shall certainly have to think about it. You won't mind who she is, I suppose?"

"I only make two stipulations," said Lady Jocelyn. "She mustn't be a German and she mustn't wear squeaky boots."

Tony laughed. "All right, Aunt Fanny," he said. "I can promise you that safely."

He walked to the window and glanced down into Chester Square where a huge venomous-looking, two-seated Peugot was filling up the roadway.

"I must toddle away now," he observed. "I want to run up to the Club, and see that everything's all right for to-morrow night, and then I must get back home and change. I have promised to go to this fancy dress dance at the Albert Hall, and it will take me a long time to look like Charles the Second."

Lady Jocelyn leaned forward and rang the bell. "Come and see me again some day, Tony," she said, "when you have nothing better to do. I shall be home till the end of July, at all events."

Tony bent down and kissed her affectionately. "I shall often be dropping in if I may," he said. "I am always in scrapes you know, Aunt Fanny, and you are about the only person I can look to for a little sympathy and encouragement."

"If my moral support is of any use, Tony," she said, "you can count on it to the utmost."

Outside the house a small crowd of loafers and errand boys had gathered round the car, which with its enormous strapped bonnet and disk wheels looked singularly out of place in this trim, respectable neighbourhood.

"Wotyer call that, guv'nor?" inquired one of them. "A cycle car?"

"It's the new Baby Peugot," replied Tony gravely.

He started up the engine, and climbing into the seat, disappeared round the corner, followed by the admiring glances of his audience.

The Cosmopolitan Club, the headquarters of British pugilism, is situated in Covent Garden. It is regarded by some excellent people as a plague spot that will eventually be wiped away by the rising flood of a more humanized civilization, but this opinion can hardly be said to represent the views of the porter and carmen who frequent the vicinity. To them the Club represents all that is best and brightest in English civilization, and amongst its numerous and oddly assorted members nobody could claim to be better known or more popular than Tony.

As the big car picked its way over the cobbles, twisting neatly in and out between unattended carts and piles of empty baskets, a good number of the men who were lounging about greeted the owner with a friendly salute. When he reached the Club and pulled up, several of them stepped forward eagerly to open the door.

"'Ow abaht ter-morrer, sir," inquired one huge, hoarse-voiced carter. "Sife to shove a bit on Tiger?"

"You can shove your horse and cart on him," said Tony, "and if it doesn't come off I'll buy you another."

He jumped out and crossed the pavement, followed by an approving murmur from everyone who had heard his offer.

The carter spat decisively into the gutter. "E's a ruddy nobleman, 'e is," he observed, looking round the group with a bloodshot eye. "'Oo says 'e ain't?"

No one ventured on such a rash assertion; indeed, putting aside the carter's discouraging air, everyone present considered Tony's offer to be the very acme of aristocratic behaviour.

The creator of this favourable impression pushed open the swinging door of the Club and, accepting a couple of letters from the hotel porter, walked through into the comfortably furnished bar lounge at the back. Its two inhabitants, who were each in the act of consuming a cocktail, glanced round at his entrance. One was "Doggy" Donaldson, the manager, a burly, genial-looking, bullet-headed individual with close-cropped grey hair, and a permanently unlit cigar jutting up rakishly out of the corner of his mouth.

"Hello, Tony," he exclaimed. "You're just in time to join us. You know the Marquis da Freitas, of course?"

Tony nodded easily, and Donaldson's companion, a stout, dark-complexioned, well-dressed man of about fifty with a certain air of distinction about him, returned the greeting with a courteous wave of his hand.

"We meet as enemies, Sir Antony," he remarked smilingly.

"Well, I just dropped in for a second to see that everything was all right about to-morrow," said Tony. "Our boy is in fine form: never been fitter. I hope you have been equally lucky?"

The Marquis indulged in the faintest possible shrug of his broad shoulders. "I believe so," he said. "I am not a great authority on these matters myself, but they amuse His Majesty."

"Everything's O.K.," observed the manager in a satisfied voice. "We sold the last seat this morning, and there have been several applications since. It's going to be the best night of the season. You will see your boy turns up in good time, won't you?"

Tony helped himself to the cocktail, which the barman, without asking any superfluous questions, had been quietly preparing for him.

"Right you are," he said, drinking it off. "What's the betting, Doggy?"

"Martin-Smith told me this morning he'd got a level hundred on Lopez."

Tony put down the empty glass. "Ah well," he said, "he can afford to lose it."

There was a short pause.

"You seem confident, Sir Antony," remarked the Marquis in his suave voice. "Perhaps you would like to back your opinion a little further. I don't know much about this sort of thing, as I said just now, but I am prepared to support our man if only from patriotic motives."

"Anything you care to suggest, Marquis," said Tony indifferently.

"Shall we say a couple of hundred, then?"

Tony nodded, and booked the bet on his shirt cuff.

"I must be off now," he said. "I suppose you and the King will be at the Albert Hall to-night?"

The Marquis shook his head. "I do not think His Majesty intends to be present. As for me—" he again shrugged his shoulders—"I grow old for such frivolities."

"Well, till to-morrow then," said Tony.

He passed out again through the hall, and jumping into the car steered his way slowly round the corner into Long Acre, where he branched off in the direction of Piccadilly. He was just passing Garnett's, the celebrated theatrical costumier, when the door of that eminent establishment swung open, and a very pretty and smartly dressed girl stepped out on to the pavement. Directly Tony saw her he checked the car and turned it gently in towards the gutter.

She came up to him with a most attractive smile.

"But how convenient, Tony," she exclaimed. "You will be able to drive me home. I was just going to waste my money on a taxi."

He leaned across and opened the door. "You can give me the bob instead, Molly," he said. "Jump in."

She stepped up alongside of him, and with a harsh croak the big car glided forward again into the thronging bustle of Leicester Square.

"Funny picking you up like this," he said. "I've just been talking about you."

"I'm always being talked about," replied Molly serenely. "I hope you weren't as nasty as most people."

"I was saying that you were the only girl in London with that particular shade of red hair." Tony brought out this shameless untruth with the utmost coolness.

"It is rather nice, isn't it?" said Molly. "All the girls think I touch it up. As a matter of fact it's one of the few parts of me I don't." She paused. "What were you really saying about me, Tony?"

"Oh, quite nice things," he replied. "Can you fancy me saying anything else?"

"No," she said. "I'll admit you're an amiable beast as men go. But why haven't you been to see me lately?"

Grasping his opportunity Tony darted across the bows of an onrushing motor-bus, and gained the comparative shelter of Regent Street.

"If it is a fact," he observed, "I can only attribute it to idiocy."

"You know it's a fact," said Molly, "and it's hurt me, Tony. I wouldn't mind being chucked by any one else. But somehow you're different. I have always looked on you as a pal."

Tony slipped his left hand off the wheel for a second and lightly squeezed hers.

"So I am, Molly," he said. "Why on earth should I have changed?"

"I thought you might be sick with me about—well, about Peter."

"Good Lord, no," said Tony. "I never criticize my friends' hobbies. If I haven't routed you out lately, it's only because I've been really busy."

Her face brightened. "You're a nice old thing, Tony," she said. "Come and lunch with me to-morrow if you're not booked up. Just us two. I really do want to have a talk with you, badly."

"Right-o," said Tony. "You'll be able to give me the latest stable information about Lopez. It's the fight to-morrow night, you know."

Molly nodded. "Peter thinks he's going to win all right," she said. "He's cocksure about it."

"I gathered that," said Tony. "I ran into da Freitas at the Club just now and he bet me a level two hundred we were in for a whipping. I shouldn't think he was a gentleman who chucked away his money out of patriotic sentiment."

Molly made as near an approach to an ugly face as nature would allow.

"You don't like him?" inquired Tony artlessly.

"He's a pig," said Molly, and then after a short pause she added with some reluctance, "but he's a clever pig."

"That," observed Tony, "only aggravates the offence."

He pulled up at Basil Mansions, a big block of luxurious flats just opposite the Langham Hotel, and a magnificently gilded porter hastened forward to open the door of the car.

"I'll tell you about him to-morrow," said Molly. "Don't be later than half-past one. I'm always starving by then, and I shan't wait for you."

"I am always punctual for meals," said Tony. "It's the only virtue that's rewarded on the spot."

CHAPTER II

THE MORALS OF MOLLY

It was exactly eleven o'clock when Tony woke up. He looked at his watch, yawned, stretched himself, ran his fingers through his hair, and then reaching out his hand pressed the electric bell beside his bed. After a short pause it was answered by a middle-aged, clean-shaven man, with a face like a tired sphinx, who entered the room carrying a cup of tea upon a tray. Tony sat up and blinked at him.

"Good-morning, Spalding," he observed.

"Good-morning, Sir Antony," returned the man; "I trust that you slept well, sir?"

"Very well, thank you," replied Tony. "What time did I get home?"

"I fancy it was a little after four, sir."

Tony took a long drink out of the tea-cup, and then put it down again. "I am curiously thirsty this morning, Spalding," he said. "Was I quite sober when I came back?"

The man hesitated. "I should describe you as being so, sir," he replied.

"Thank you, Spalding," said Tony gratefully.

Crossing the room the valet drew up the blinds, and admitted a cheerful stream of sunshine.

"Mr. Oliver left a message, sir, to say that he would not be back until the afternoon. He has gone out on business and is lunching with Mr. Henry Conway."

"Where's Bugg?" inquired Tony.

"At the present moment, sir, I believe he is in the gymnasium. He informed me that he was about to loosen his muscles with a little shadow boxing."

"Is he all right?"

"He appears to be in the most robust health, sir."

A look of relief passed across Tony's face. "You have taken a weight off my mind, Spalding," he said. "I dreamed that he had broken his neck."

The valet shook his head reassuringly.

"I observed no sign of it, sir, when I passed him in the hall."

"In that case," said Tony, "I think I shall get up. You can fill the bath, Spalding, and you can tell the cook I shan't want any breakfast."

The impassive servant bowed and withdrew from the room, and after finishing his tea, Tony got luxuriously out of bed, and proceeded to drape himself in a blue silk dressing-gown with gold dragons embroidered round the hem. It was a handsome garment originally intended for the President of China, but that gentleman had unexpectedly rejected it on the ground that it was too ornate for the elected head of a democratic community. At least that was how the Bond Street shopman who had sold it to Tony had accounted for its excessive price.

Lighting a cigarette, Tony sauntered across to the bathroom, where a shave, a cold tub, and a few minutes of Muller's exercises were sufficient to remove the slight trace of lassitude induced by his impersonation of Charles the Second. Then, still clad in his dressing-gown, he strolled down the main staircase, and opening the front door passed out into the garden.

The house was one of those two or three jolly old-fashioned survivals which still stand in their own grounds in the neighbourhood of Jack Straw's Castle. Tony had bought up the freehold several years previously, the quaint old Georgian residence in its delightful surroundings appealing to him far more than his own gloomy family mansion in Belgrave Square. As he himself was fond of explaining, it gave one all the charm of living in the country without any of its temptations to virtue.

A few yards' walk along a gravel path, hedged in on each side by thick laurel bushes, brought him to the gymnasium. The door was slightly open, and from the quick patter and shuffle of footsteps inside, it sounded as if a number of ballet girls were practising a novel and rather complicated form of step dance.

The spectacle that actually met Tony's eyes when he entered, however, was of a less seductive nature. Clad only in a pair of flannel trousers, a young man was spinning and darting about the room in the most extraordinary fashion, indulging at the same time in lightning-like movements with his head and arms. To the uninitiated observer he would have appeared to be either qualifying for a lunatic asylum or else attempting the difficult feat of catching flies on the wing. As a matter of fact either assumption would have been equally inaccurate. He was engaged in what is known amongst pugilists as "shadow boxing" which consists of conducting an animated contest with a vicious but imaginary opponent.

On seeing Tony the young man in question came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, and raised his forefinger to his close-cropped forehead.

"Mornin', Sir Ant'ny," he observed.

Notwithstanding his exertions he spoke without the least trace of breathlessness, and there was no sign of perspiration upon his clean white skin. He looked what he was—a splendidly built lad of about nineteen, trained to the last pitch of physical fitness.

Tony glanced him over with an approving eye. "Good-morning, Bugg," he answered. "I am glad to see you looking so well. I dreamed you had broken your neck."

The lad grinned cheerfully. "Not me, sir. Never felt better in me life. Must 'a bin the other bloke."

"I hope not," said Tony anxiously. "I backed you for another two-fifty yesterday, and I can't very well claim the money unless the fight comes off. By the way, a hundred of that goes on to the purse if you do the trick all right."

The young prize-fighter looked a trifle embarrassed. "There ain't no call for that, sir—thankin' ye kindly all the saime, sir. I'd knock out 'alf a dozen blokes like Lopez for a purse o' three 'undred."

"Your unmercenary nature is one of your chief charms, Bugg," said Tony. "All the same you mustn't carry it to extremes. How much money have you got in the bank now?"

Bugg scratched his ear. "The last time I goes in, sir, the old geezer with the whiskers says somethin' abaht a matter of eleven 'undred quid."

"Well, by to-morrow you ought to have fifteen hundred. In other words, Bugg, you will be a capitalist—one of the idle rich. That money, properly invested, will bring you in thirty shillings a week. If you want to set up as an independent gentleman now's the time to begin."

A sudden look of surprised dismay spread itself across Bugg's square-jawed face.

"Meanin' I got the chuck, sir?" he inquired dully.

Tony laughed. "Of course not," he said. "Don't be an ass, Bugg. I was only pointing out to you that if you like to set up on your own you can afford to do it. I'll go on backing you as long as you want me to, but you needn't feel bound to stop on here if you'd rather clear out. It's not much of a job for a budding champion of England with fifteen hundred pounds in the bank."

Bugg gave an audible sigh of relief.

"I thought you was 'andin' me the bird, sir," he observed. "Give me a proper turn it did, jest for the minit."

"Then you don't want to go?"

Bugg laughed, almost contemptuously.

"Where'd I go to, sir?" he demanded. "'Ow long would that fifteen 'undred last if I was knockin' arahnd on me own with every flash cove in London 'avin' a cut at it? 'Sides, that, sir, I don't want nothin' different. I wouldn't change the job I got, not to be King of England. If it weren't for you I'd be 'awkin' welks now, or fightin' in a booth, an' Tiger Bugg ain't the sort to forget a thing like that. Wen you don't want me no more, sir, jest you tip me the orfice straight and proper and I'll 'op it, but so long as there's any bloomin' thing I can do for you, sir, well, 'ere I am and 'ere I means to stop."

It was the longest speech that Tiger Bugg had ever indulged in, and certainly the most eloquent. Tony, who was genuinely touched by the obvious sincerity with which it was uttered, stepped forward and patted the lad on his shoulder.

"That's all right, Tiger," he said. "There will always be a job for you here if it's only to annoy my relations." He paused and lighted himself another cigarette. "Give us a bit of your best to-night," he added. "I should like to make Da Freitas look silly, and if you win easily, Donaldson has practically promised me a match for the Lonsdale Belt."

Bugg's eyes gleamed, and his hands automatically clenched themselves.

"I'll slip one over the fust chance I get, sir," he observed earnestly. "I don't think I'll 'ave to wait long either."

Tony nodded, and gathering up his dressing-gown, turned towards the door.

"Well, be ready by eight o'clock," he said, "and we'll go down together in the car."

Leaving the gymnasium he strolled on up the path till it curved round the corner and opened out into an asphalt yard, where a man in blue overalls was attending to the toilet of the big Peugot. He was a tall, red-haired individual with an expression of incurable melancholy on his face.

"Good-morning, Jennings," said Tony. "It's a nice morning, isn't it?"

The chauffeur cast a resentful glance at the unclouded blue overhead.

"It's all right at present, sir," he admitted grudgingly, "but these here extra fine mornings have a way of turning off sudden."

Tony sauntered up to the car, and lifting the bonnet looked down into the gleaming network of copper and brass which bore eloquent testimony to the care and energy expended on it.

"I didn't think she was pulling quite at her best yesterday," he said. "You might have a run through and tune her up a bit, when you've got time."

The chauffeur nodded. "Once these here big racin' engines begin to give trouble, sir," he remarked with a sort of gloomy relish, "they ain't never the same again—not in a manner o' speaking. Least, that's how it seems to me."

"That's how it would seem to you, Jennings," said Tony kindly. "Is the Suiza all right?"

"She'll run, sir."

"Well, have her ready about one o'clock, and I shall want you and the Rolls-Royce at eight to-night, to take us down to the Club." He paused. "I suppose you have backed Bugg?" he added.

Jennings shook his head. "Not me, sir. I think he's flying too high, sir. From all they tell me this here Lopez is a terror. I'll be sorry to see Bugg knocked out, but there it is; it comes to all of 'em in time."

"I like talking to you after breakfast, Jennings," said Tony. "You cheer one up for the entire day."

Jennings received the compliment with an utterly unmoved expression. "I don't take much stock in bein' cheerful meself, sir," he observed, "not unless there's something to be cheerful about."

He stepped forward and resumed his work on the car, and after watching him for a moment or two with a pleasant languid interest Tony turned round and sauntered back to the house.

He finished his toilet in a leisurely fashion, and then spent an agreeable half-hour over the Sportsman, which was the only morning paper that he took in. Current affairs of a more general nature did not interest him much, though in times of national or political crisis it was his habit to borrow the Daily Mail from Spalding.

Soon after one, Jennings brought the Suiza round to the front door, and a quarter of an hour later Tony turned in through the gateway of Basil Mansions and drew up alongside the rockery and fountain with which a romantic landlord had enriched the centre of the courtyard.

Leaving the car there, he strolled across to Molly's flat and rang the bell. It was answered almost at once by a neatly dressed French maid, who conducted him into a bright and daintily furnished room where Molly was sitting at the piano practising a new song. She jumped up gaily directly she saw him.

"Oh, how nice of you, Tony," she exclaimed. "You are ten minutes early and I'm fearfully hungry. Lunch as soon as it's ready, Claudine."

She gave Tony her hand which he raised gallantly to his lips.

"You are looking very beautiful this morning, Molly," he said. "You remind me of one of those things that come out of ponds."

"What do you mean?" asked Molly. "Frogs?"

"No," said Tony, "not frogs. Those sort of jolly wet girls with nothing on; what do you call them—naiads, isn't it?"

Molly burst into a ripple of laughter. "I don't think that's much of a compliment to my frock, Tony," she said. "It was specially designed for me by Jay's too! Don't you like it?"

Tony stepped back and inspected her critically.

"It's wonderful," he said. "I should imagine Mr. Jay was now prostrate with nervous exhaustion."

"Oh, well," replied Molly comfortingly, "he'll have heaps of time to recover before he's paid."

The clear note of a silver gong sounded from the passage and she thrust her arm through Tony's.

"Come along," she said, "there are roast quails and it would be awful if they got cold, wouldn't it?"

Tony gave a slight shudder. "There are some tragedies," he said, "that one hardly likes to think about."

All through lunch, which was daintily served in Molly's pretty, sunny little dining-room, they chatted away in the easy cheerful fashion of two people who have no illusions about each other and are yet the firmest of friends. The lunch itself was excellent, and Claudine waited on them with a graceful skill that lent an additional harmony to its progress.

"I think I am in love with your new maid," observed Tony thoughtfully, when she at length left them to their coffee and cigarettes.

"I am glad you approve of her," said Molly, "but if you haven't seen her before it only shows how disgustingly you must have treated me. She has been here since Christmas."

"I like her face," pursued Tony. "It's so pure. She looks as if she had been turned out of a convent for being too good."

"She isn't good," said Molly. "Don't you think it."

"That only makes her all the more wonderful," said Tony. "To look good and to be wicked is the ideal combination. You get the benefits of both without any of their drawbacks."

"In that case," observed Molly, "I must be dead out of luck. With my red hair and red lips I look desperately wicked, while as a matter of fact I'm quite uninterestingly good—by instinct." She paused. "I want to talk to you about my morals, Tony. That has been one of the chief reasons why I asked you to lunch."

Tony poured out a glass of liqueur brandy. "The morals of Molly," he remarked contentedly. "I can't imagine a more perfect subject for an after-lunch discussion."

Molly lit herself a cigarette and passed him across the little silver box. "It's not so much a discussion as an explanation," she said. "I want to explain Peter." She sat back in her chair. "You see, Tony, you're the only person in the world whose opinion I care a hang for. If it hadn't been for you I don't know what would have happened to me after I ran away from home. You helped me to get on the stage, and I don't want you to think I've turned out an absolute rotter. Oh, I know people have always said horrid things about me, but then they do that about any girl in musical comedy. I believe I'm supposed to have lived with a Rajah and had a black baby, and Lord knows what else, but as a matter of fact it's all lies and invention. People talk like that just to appear more in the swim than somebody else. Of course I don't mean to say I haven't had lots of kind offers of that sort, but until Peter came along I'd said 'no' to all of them."

"What made you pitch on Peter?" asked Tony.

"I don't know," said Molly frankly. "I think I was sorry for him to start with. He's so stupid you know—any one can take him in, and that little cat Marie d'Estelle was getting thousands out of him and carrying on all the time with half a dozen other men. So I thought I'd just take him away if only to teach her common decency."

"If rumour is correct," observed Tony, "the lesson was not entirely successful."

Molly laughed. "Well, that was how the thing started anyway," she said. "Peter got awfully keen on me, and after I had seen a little bit of him and snubbed him rather badly once or twice for being too affectionate, I really began to get quite fond of him. You see if he wasn't a king he'd be a jolly good sort. There's nothing really the matter with him except that he's been horribly spoilt. He isn't a bit vicious naturally; he only thought he was until he met me. He is weak and stupid, of course, but then I like a man not to be too clever if I am going to have much to do with him. Stupid men stick to you, and you can make them do just what you want. You know Peter consults me about practically everything."

"And what does Da Freitas think of the situation?" asked Tony mildly.

"Oh, Da Freitas!" Molly's expression was an answer in itself. "He hates me, Tony; he can't stand any one having an influence over Peter except himself. He didn't mind d'Estelle and people like that, in spite of the money they cost, but he would give anything to get rid of me. He likes Peter to be weak and dissipated and not to bother about things, because then he has all the power in his own hands."

"But how is all this going to end, Molly?" asked Tony. "Suppose there's another revolution in Livadia, and Peter, as you call him, has to go back to be King. It's quite on the cards according to what one hears."

"Oh, I know," said Molly, shrugging her shoulders, "but what's the good of worrying? If they knew Peter as well as I do they wouldn't be so stupid. He'd be no earthly use as a king, by himself, and he'd look too absolutely silly for words with a crown on his head. As far as his own private tastes go, he's a lot happier at Richmond. He quite sees it too, you know, when I point it out to him, but he says he wouldn't be able to help himself if there really was a revolution."

"No," said Tony. "I imagine Da Freitas would see to that. It will be a precious cold day when he gets left. He hasn't schemed and plotted and kept in with Pedro all this time in order to let the chance slip when it comes along. If he isn't back there one day in his old job of Prime Minister, it won't be the fault of the Marquis Fernando."

Molly looked pensively into the fire. "He only makes one mistake," she said. "He's a little too apt to think other people are more stupid than they are. I suppose it comes from associating so much with poor old Peter."

CHAPTER III

TWO YELLOW-FACED FOREIGNERS

Very carefully Tony sprinkled a little Bengal pepper over the perfectly grilled sole which Spalding had set down in front of him. Then he returned the bottle to the cruet-stand and looked across the table at his cousin.

"You really ought to come to-night, Guy," he said. "It will be a beautiful fight while it lasts."

Guy Oliver shook his head. He was a tall, rather gaunt young man with a pleasant but too serious expression. "My dear Tony," he replied, "my tastes may be peculiar, but as I have told you before, it really gives me no pleasure to watch two lads striking each other violently about the face and body."

"You were always hard to please," complained Tony sadly. "Fighting is one of the few natural and healthy occupations left to humanity."

Guy adjusted his glasses. "I am not criticizing fighting in its proper place," he said. "I think there are times when it may be necessary and even enjoyable. All I do object to is regarding it as a pastime. There are some things in life that we are not meant to make a popular spectacle out of. What would you say if someone suggested paying people to make love to each other on public platforms?"

"I should say it would be most exciting," said Tony. "Especially the heavy-weight championship." He poured himself out half a glass of sherry and held it up to the light. "Talking of heavy-weights," he added, "how did you find our dear Cousin Henry?"

"Henry was very well," said Guy. "He is coming to see you."

Tony put down his glass and surveyed his cousin reproachfully. "And you call yourself a secretary and a friend?" he remarked.

"I think it is very good for you to entertain Cousin Henry occasionally," returned Guy. "He is an excellent antidote to the Cosmopolitan Club and Brooklands." He paused. "Besides, he has a suggestion to make with which I am thoroughly in sympathy."

A depressed expression flitted across Tony's face. "I am sure it has something to do with my duty," he said.

Guy nodded. "I wish you would try and look on it in that light. Henry has put himself to a lot of trouble about it, and he will be very hurt if you don't take it seriously."

"My dear Guy!" said Tony. "A proposal of Henry's with which you are in sympathy couldn't possibly be taken any other way. What is it?"

"He has set his heart on your going into Parliament as you know. Well, he told me that last week he had spoken about you to the Chief Whip, and that they are arranging for you to stand as Government candidate for Balham North at the next general election."

There was a long pause.

"For where?" inquired Tony faintly.

"For Balham North. It's a large constituency in South London close to Upper Tooting."

"It would be," said Tony. "And may I ask what I have done to deserve this horrible fate?"

"That's just it," said Guy. "You haven't done anything. Henry feels—indeed we all feel that as head of the family it is quite time you made a start."

"You don't understand," said Tony with some dignity. "I am sowing my wild oats. It is what every wealthy young baronet is expected to do."

"Leaving out the war," retorted Guy, "you have been sowing them for exactly six years and nine months."

Tony smiled contentedly. "I always think," he observed, "that if a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well."

There was another pause, while Guy, crumbling a bit of bread between his fingers, regarded his cousin with a thoughtful scrutiny.

"As far as I can see, Tony," he said, "there is only one thing that's the least likely to do you any good. You want a complete change in your life—something that will wake you up to a sense of duty and responsibility. I think you ought to get married."

Tony, who was helping himself to a glass of champagne, paused abruptly in the middle of that engaging occupation.

"How remarkable!" he exclaimed. "Only yesterday Aunt Fanny made exactly the same suggestion. It must be something in the spring air."

"I don't always agree with Aunt Fanny," said Guy, "but I think that for once in a way she was giving you excellent advice. A good wife would make a tremendous difference in your life."

"Tremendous!" assented Tony with a shudder. "I should probably have to give up smoking in bed and come down to breakfast every morning."

"You would be all the better for it," said Guy firmly. "I was thinking, however, more of your general outlook on things. Marriage with the right woman might make you realize that your position carries with it certain duties that you ought to regard both as a privilege and a pleasure."

"Is going into Parliament one of them?" asked Tony.

"Certainly. As a large landowner you are just the type of man who is badly wanted in the House of Commons."

"They must be devilish hard up for legislators," said Tony. "Still, if you and Henry have made up your minds, I expect I shall have to do it." He paused. "I don't think I should like to be the member for Balham North though," he added reflectively. "It sounds like the sort of place where a chorus girl's mother would live."

Any defence of the constituency which Guy may have had to offer was cut short by the re-entrance of Spalding.

"The car is at the door, sir," he observed.

"Aren't you going to finish your dinner?" inquired Guy, as Tony pushed back his chair.

The latter shook his head. "I never eat much before a fight," he said. "It prevents my getting properly excited." He got up from his seat. "Besides," he added, "I always take Bugg round to Shepherd's after he has knocked out his man, and we celebrate the victory with stout and oysters. It's Bugg's idea of Heaven."

He passed out into the hall where Spalding helped him on with his coat. Outside the front door stood a beautifully appointed Rolls-Royce limousine, painted the colour of silver and upholstered in grey Bedford cord. Jennings was at the wheel and inside sat Tiger Bugg and a large red-faced man with little twinkling black eyes. This latter was Mr. "Blink" McFarland, the celebrated proprietor of the Hampstead Heath Gymnasium, who acted as Tiger's trainer and sparring partner. They both touched their caps as Tony appeared.

"I wouldn't let 'im get out, sir," observed McFarland in a gruff voice. "Might 'a took a chill hangin' around."

"Quite right, Blink," replied Tony gravely. "Lopez isn't to be sneezed at even by a future champion."

He lit himself a cigarette, and stepping inside closed the door behind him. Spalding made a signal to Jennings and the big car slid off noiselessly down the drive.

Tony turned to Bugg. "Feeling all right?" he inquired.

The young prize-fighter grinned amiably. "Fine, sir, thank ye, sir."

With an affectionate gesture, McFarland laid an enormous mottled hand on his charge's knee. "He's fit to jump out of 'is skin, sir; you take it from me. If he don't knock two sorts of blue 'ell out of that dirty faced dago I'll give up trainin' fighters and start keepin' rabbits."

"Lopez is supposed to have a bit of a punch himself, isn't he?" inquired Tony.

McFarland made a hoarse rumbling noise which was presumably intended for a laugh.

"All the better for us, sir. The harder 'e hits the more 'e'll hurt hisself. It's a forlorn jog punchin' Tiger. You might as well kick a pavin' stone."

Bugg, who was evidently susceptible to compliments, blushed like a schoolgirl, and then to cover his confusion turned an embarrassed gaze out of the window. The long descent of Haverstock Hill was flying past at a rare pace, for whatever might be Jenning's shortcomings as a cheerful companion he could certainly drive a car. Indeed it could scarcely have been more than ten minutes from the moment they left the Heath, until, with a loud blast from the horn, they glided round the corner of the street into Covent Garden.

The pavement and roadway in front of the Cosmopolitan were filled by the usual rough-looking crowd that invariably congregates outside the Club on the occasion of a big fight. With surprising swiftness, however, a space was cleared for Tony's car, and as its three occupants stepped out, a hoarse excited buzz of "That's 'im! that's Tiger!" rose up all round them.

Bugg and McFarland hurried through into the Club; Tony stopping behind for a moment to give some directions to Jennings.

"You can put the car up at the R.A.C.," he said. "I'll telephone over when I want you."

He followed the others across the pavement, amid encouraging observations of, "Good-luck, me lord!" and one or two approving pats on the back from hearty if not overclean hands.

Bugg and his trainer had of course gone direct to their dressing-room, where Tony made no attempt to pursue them. He knew that Tiger's preparations were safe in McFarland's hands, so relinquishing his coat to one of the hall porters, he walked straight through to the big gymnasium where the Club contests were held.

It was an animated scene that met his eyes as he entered. A preliminary bout was in progress and round the raised and roped dais in the centre, with its blinding glare of light overhead, sat a thousand or fifteen hundred of London's most eminent "sportsmen." They were nearly all in evening dress: the dazzling array of white shirt fronts and diamond studs affording a vivid testimony to the interest taken in pugilism by the most refined and educated classes.

As soon as the round was ended, Tony made his way slowly towards his seat by the ring-side, exchanging innumerable greetings as he passed along. Almost everybody seemed to know him, and he seemed to have a smile and a cheery word for them all.

A few yards from his destination he came across the Marquis da Freitas. That distinguished statesman was seated in the front row of chairs enjoying a big cigar, while beside him lounged a dark, squarely built, rather coarse-featured youth, who greeted Tony with an affable if slightly condescending wave of his hand. The latter was none other than His Majesty King Pedro the Fifth, the rightful though temporarily discarded ruler of Livadia.

Tony pulled up at this mark of Royal recognition and shook hands with the Marquis and his monarch. It was understood that on such occasions as the present the ex-king preferred to be regarded as an ordinary member of the Club.

"Everything is good I hope," he observed to Tony. "Your man he is up to the scratch—eh?"

He spoke English confidently, but with a marked foreign accent.

"Rather," said Tony. "Never been fitter in his life. No excuses if we're beaten."

Da Freitas blew out a philosophic puff of smoke. "Ah, Sir Antony," he observed, "that is one of your national virtues. You are good losers, you English. Perhaps you do not feel defeat as deeply as Southerners."

"Perhaps not," admitted Tony cheerfully. "Anyhow, it's not much good making a song about things, is it? One's bound to strike a snag occasionally."

The Marquis nodded. "In Livadia," he said softly, "we do not like to be beaten. We——"

There was a loud tang from the gong and the two boxers sprang up out of their respective corners to resume the fight. With a gesture of apology Tony moved along to his seat, where he found himself next to "Doggy" Donaldson, who was discharging his customary rôle of Master of the Ceremonies. He welcomed Tony with a grip of the hand.

"Glad you've turned up," he said. "I never feel really happy till both parties are in the Club. All serene?"

"As far as we're concerned," replied Tony.

Donaldson rubbed his hands. "That's good," he observed contentedly. "We'll have 'em in the ring by nine-thirty at latest. That'll just give us time to—Hullo! Look at that! Damned if Young Alf isn't chucking it."

One of the two contesting youths had suddenly stepped back and held out his hand to his opponent. He had just received a severe dig in the stomach, which had apparently convinced him for the moment that boxing was an unfriendly and over-rated amusement.

With a grunt of disgust at such pusillanimity Donaldson clambered up into the ring, and in a stentorian voice announced the name of the winner. He then introduced two more lithe-limbed active-looking lads, who promptly set about the task of punching each other's heads with refreshing accuracy and vigour.

It was about a quarter-past nine when this bout came to an end, and preparations were begun for the principal event. Two buckets of clean water were brought in, and a large cardboard box containing a couple of new pairs of boxing-gloves was deposited in the centre of the ring. Then, while a truculent looking gentleman in flannel trousers and a sweater strolled about crushing lumps of resin beneath his feet, Doggy Donaldson again hoisted himself into the roped square, and held up his hand for silence.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have the pleasure to announce that the Committee has decided to match the winner of to-night's contest against Jack Rivers, the holder of the Lonsdale Welter Weight Belt."

The applause that greeted this statement had scarcely died away, when a louder and more enthusiastic outburst proclaimed the appearance of the boxers. They came on from different sides of the building each with a small army of seconds in attendance. Climbing up into opposite corners of the ring they bowed their acknowledgments to the audience, and then, after carefully rubbing their feet in the resin, seated themselves on the small stools that had been placed in readiness.

A number of lengthy preliminaries followed. The bandages that each man wore on his hands were gravely inspected by one of his rival's seconds, while another opened the cardboard box, and selected one of the two pairs of gloves for his principal. They were nice-looking gloves, but to the casual observer they would have appeared to be constructed more for the purpose of conforming to the law than of really deadening the effect of a blow. By dint of much pulling and straining, however, each boxer managed to get them on, and then sat with a dressing-gown over his shoulders while "Doggy" Donaldson made the inevitable introductions.

"Gentlemen! A twenty three-minute round contest between 'Lightning' Lopez of Livadia on my right, and 'Tiger' Bugg of Hampstead on my left. The bout will be refereed by Mr. 'Dick' Fisher."

An elderly man in evening dress with a weather-beaten face, hard blue eyes, and a chin like the toe of a boot stepped up alongside the speaker and jerked his head at the audience. He was an ex-amateur champion of England, and one of the best judges of boxing in the world.

The gong sounded as a signal to clear the ring, and the cluster of seconds each side made a leisurely exit through the ropes. For a moment the two boxers were left sitting on their respective stools facing each other across the brilliantly lighted arena. Then came another clang, and with a simultaneous movement they leaped lightly to their feet, and advanced swiftly but cautiously towards the centre.

To any one sufficiently pagan to admire the human form they made a pleasing and effective picture. Both nude, except for a pair of very short blue trunks, they moved forward with the lithe grace of a couple of young panthers. Under the pitiless glare of the big arc lamps the rippling muscles on their backs and shoulders were plainly visible. Bugg's white skin stood out in dazzling contrast to the swarthy colour of his opponent, but as far as bodily perfection went there seemed to be nothing to choose between them.

For a few seconds they circled stealthily round the ring sparring for an opening. Lopez, who had adopted a slightly crouching pose, was the more aggressive of the two. He was famed for the fierce impetuousness of his methods, and on his last appearance at the Club he had signalized the occasion by knocking out his adversary in the second round.

In the present instance, however, he appeared to be a little at a loss. There was nothing very unusual to the eye about Bugg's style, but the almost contemptuous ease with which he brushed aside a couple of lightning-like left leads was distinctly disconcerting to his opponent.

Realizing apparently that as far as quickness and skill went he had met more than his match, the Livadian evidently decided that his usual robust tactics might be the most effective. He drew back a pace, and then slightly dropping his head, sprang in with the vicious fury of a wildcat, hitting out fiercely with both hands.

The suddenness of the attack would have taken most boxers by surprise, but that embarrassing emotion appeared to have no place in Bugg's philosophy. With the swiftness of light he stepped to one side, and just as the human battering ram in front of him hurled itself forward, he brought up his right hand in a whizzing upper cut that caught his adversary under the angle of the jaw. The blow was so perfectly timed and delivered with such tremendous force that it lifted Lopez clean off his feet. With his arms flung out wide each side of him he made a sort of convulsive jerk into the air, and then crashed over backwards on to the floor, where he lay a huddled and inert mass.

For an instant the whole house remained hushed in a stupefied silence. Then as the time-keeper began to count off the fateful seconds a sudden hoarse roar broke out all over the building. Above the din could be heard the voices of Lopez' seconds, howling abuse and entreaty at their unconscious principal. In vain the referee waved his arms, entreating some sort of order for the count.

"Doggy" Donaldson clutched Tony by the wrist. "Damn it!" he shouted excitedly, "I believe he's broken his neck."

Even as he spoke came the clang of the time-keeper's gong, signifying that the ten seconds had passed. In a moment half a dozen figures were swarming over the ropes, but before any one of them could reach him, Bugg had picked up his limp, unconscious adversary in his arms, and was carrying him across the ring to his own corner. He seemed to be by far the coolest and most collected person present.

Almost immediately Tony became the centre of a number of friends and acquaintances who were wringing his hand and congratulating him on the victory. After a minute or two he managed to free himself, and pushing his way through to the ringside, inquired anxiously after the health of the unfortunate Lopez. "Doggy" Donaldson, who was amongst the crowd surrounding that fallen warrior, bent down with an air of considerable relief upon his honest countenance.

"It's all right," he said, "the beggar's coming round. I really thought for a moment he was a goner though. Gad, what a kick that boy of yours has got!"

"Well, I'm glad it's no worse," said Tony.

The other nodded. "Yes," he observed, "we must all be thankful for that. It would have been a rotten thing for the Club if he'd broken his neck."

He turned away, and following suit, Tony suddenly found himself face to face with the Marquis da Freitas, and his royal master, who had apparently stepped forward in order to learn the news. The Marquis appeared as suave as ever, but anything more sulky looking than His Majesty it would have been difficult to imagine.

Da Freitas bowed with the faintest ironical exaggeration. "Permit me to congratulate you, Sir Antony. Your victory is indeed crushing."

Tony regarded him with his usual amiable smile. "Thanks," he said. "I am awfully glad your man isn't seriously hurt. It was bad luck his running into a punch like that." He turned to Pedro. "You can have a return match you know any time, if you care about it."

His Majesty scowled. "I will see him dead before I back him again," he observed bitterly.

The Marquis da Freitas showed his white teeth in a polite smile. "I fear you are rather too strong for us in the boxing-ring, Sir Antony. Perhaps some day we may find a more favourable battle-ground."

"I hope so," said Tony. "I rather like having a shade of odds against me. It's so much more interesting."

He nodded cheerfully to the pair of them, and moving off from the ring-side began to make his way across the hall. It was slow work, for friends kept on pulling him up with boisterous words of congratulation, while several of them made strenuous endeavours to persuade him to join a party at some neighbouring night club, to which they were going on for supper.

Tony, however, declined the invitation on the plea of a previous engagement. As he had told Guy at dinner it was his invariable custom after a successful fight to take Bugg out to Shepherd's, the celebrated oyster bar in Coventry Street—a resort much frequented by gentlemen of pugilistic and sporting tastes. The simple-minded Tiger had not many weaknesses, but on these occasions it afforded him such extreme pleasure to be seen therewith his patron, that Tony wouldn't have missed gratifying him for the most festive supper party in London.

On reaching the dressing-room he found Bugg fully clothed and in the centre of a small levee of pressmen and fellow pugilists. McFarland, immensely in his element, was dispensing champagne to the visitors, and explaining how very lately his own unrivalled training methods had contributed to the result.