In order to verify the suspicion [I read on], the Despatch reporter went to the office of the New York and Southwestern Railroad and obtained without difficulty from several sources a description of the person of Mr. Benham, which coincides in all particulars with the so-called Jim Robinson, whom the reporter saw at work at Horsham Manor.

There is no Jim Robinson, except in name.  The opponent of Sailor Clancy in tonight’s fight is no less a person than young Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and sportsman.  It is a matter of regret, since Mr. Benham chose, for personal reasons, to hide his identity under another name, that the Despatch could not keep the matter secret, but the Despatch is in the business of supplying news to its patrons, news not presented in other journals, and so important an item as this, of course, could not be suppressed.

The murder was out.  We searched the other papers.  Nothing.

“A beat!” muttered Jack.  “I’d like to show the fellow what a beating is.”

Jack Ballard was merely angry.  I was bewildered into a state of helplessness.  What should we do?  What could we do?  The damage was done.  Telling Jerry wouldn’t help matters and might unnerve him.  We disconnected the telephone and dined at the apartment, making a pretense of eating, nervously awaiting the hour when we should go to the Garden.  We had reached the coffee, of which we were much in need, when there was a ring at the bell and Ballard Senior came into the room, a copy of the Despatch in his hand.

“Have you seen this?” he snapped.

“We have,” said Jack with an assumption of calmness.

“It’s a lie?”

“No.  It’s the truth.”

The old man raged the length of the room and turned.

“Do you mean that you’ve let this thing go on without trying to stop it—­without letting me know—­”

“We did try to stop it.  There was no use in letting you know.  Jerry’s mind was made up.”

“Jerry!  The fool is ruining himself—­and us.  The thing must be stopped—­at once.”

Jack smiled coolly.  “I don’t see how you’re going to do that.”

The father stamped the length of the room again.  “I’ll show you.  Where is Clancy?”

“I don’t know.  You’ll find him at Madison Square Garden about ten.”

“But where is he now?” he snapped.

Jack shrugged.  “I don’t know.”

“Well, you must come with me.  I’ve got to find him.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Buy him off.  This match can’t take place.”

“Do you mean that?” asked Jack with a smile.

“Did you ever know me to waste words?—­Come!”

However lenient Henry Ballard had been to his son, at that moment the parental word was law, and Jack obeyed, taking up his hat and gloves, and laying a pink ticket on the table.

“Yours, Pope.  I’ll see you later.”