“Extraordinary,” I replied, with a fictitious smile, “most extraordinary.”

He grinned at me and followed them.

It was not until the next day in the hour between road and gym work that I managed to get Flynn aside.  He had thus far succeeded in avoiding me, but I caught him by the arm as he was passing, dragged him into my study and shut the door.

“See here, Flynn,” I said with some warmth, “it’s not my affair to interfere with any of Mr. Benham’s plans.  He’s his own master now and can do what he pleases, but you and I have always been good enough friends, and I should like to know just how much or how little you’ve had to do with getting the boy into this match at the Garden—­”

He looked at me quizzically for a moment and then grinned.

“Ye’ve got a right to ask me that, Mr. Canby.  An’ I’ll give ye a fair answer.  I had nothin’ to do wid it, sor—­honor bright—­” He paused and grinned again.  “Mind ye, I’m not sayin’ I’m sorry he’s doin’ it, for I won’t lie to ye.  I’d like to see him lick Sailor Clancy an’ I’m doin’ my best to help him to it.  But for havin’ a hand in puttin’ Masther Jerry up to the game ye can count me out.  ’Twas Masther Jerry himself, sor.  He got it into his head someway an’ there was no gettin’ rid of it.  I made the match for the bye because he wanted it—­an’ that’s a fact—­nothin’ else.”

He looked me in the eye and I knew that he told the truth.

“What chance has Jerry of winning, Flynn?” I asked.

“Ah, there ye’ve got me, sor.  Jerry’s a rare one, he is, and plucky—­and quick as any man of his weight in the wor-rld—­but Clancy is a good ‘un, too—­young, strong as a bull an’ expayrienced.  Fought steady for three years, an’ winning, sor.  He’ll have the confidence—­but Masther Jerry is a wonder.  He’ll have a chanct, sor, more than an even chanct, I’d say, if he don’t waste nothin’.”

“Waste nothing?”

“He’s got to land, sor—­every time and waste no whiffs on nothin’.”

“I see.”

Flynn was eyeing the door impatiently.  He was a busy man and had no time to answer foolish questions.

“There’s no chance of getting out of it?” I asked.

“None, sor.  He couldn’t quit now.  Ye wouldn’t want him to, would you, sor?” he finished in a reproachful tone, which just missed being disagreeable.

I opened the door and he lost no time in getting to the gymnasium.

That next afternoon in the midst of the work out, I had another surprise, for a wagon arrived from the station and in it were Marcia Van Wyck and Miss Gore, the latter dragged against her will to play a part she little cared for.  I happened to meet them in the hall, where, since none of the pugilists were present, Marcia put aside subterfuge, nodded coolly and asked for Jerry.  She wore the badly fitting suit her maid had procured for her and chewed gum incessantly.  I looked anxiously at Miss Gore, but it seems that even her martyrdom stopped at that.  I led the way to the gymnasium where Jerry and the irritable Carty were resting between rounds.  The girl nodded to Jerry, who waved his glove, and took one of the chairs by the ring-side, the obedient Miss Gore next her.