“Capital!” Sir Timothy exclaimed.  “Now to pass on.  There is one other feature of my entertainments concerning which I have something to say—­a series of performances which takes place on my launch at odd times.  There is one fixed for tonight.  I can say little about it except that it is unusual.  I am going to ask you, Lady Cynthia, and you, Ledsam, to witness it.  When you have seen that, you know everything.  Then you and I, Ledsam, can call one another’s hands.  I shall have something else to say to you, but that is outside the doings here.”

“Are we to see the fight in the gymnasium?” Lady Cynthia enquired.

Sir Timothy shook his head.

“I do not allow women there under any conditions,” he said.  “You and Margaret had better stay here whilst that takes place.  It will probably be over in twenty minutes.  It will be time then for us to find our way to the launch.  After that, if you have any appetite, supper.  I will order some caviare sandwiches for you,” Sir Timothy went on, ringing the bell, “and some wine.”

Lady Cynthia smiled.

“It is really a very wonderful party,” she murmured.

Their host ushered the two men across the hall, now comparatively deserted, for every one had settled down to his or her chosen amusement—­down a long passage, through a private door which he unlocked with a Yale key, and into the gymnasium.  There were less than fifty spectators seated around the ring, and Francis, glancing at them hastily, fancied that he recognised nearly every one of them.  There was Baker, a judge, a couple of actors, Lord Meadowson, the most renowned of sporting peers, and a dozen who followed in his footsteps; a little man who had once been amateur champion in the bantam class, and who was now considered the finest judge of boxing in the world; a theatrical manager, the present amateur boxing champion, and a sprinkling of others.  Sir Timothy and his companions took their chairs amidst a buzz of welcome.  Almost immediately, the man who was in charge of the proceedings, and whose name was Harrison, rose from his place.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a sporting contest, but one under usual rules and usual conditions.  An amateur, who tips the scales at twelve stone seven, who has never engaged in a boxing contest in his life, is matched against a young man from a different sphere of life, who intends to adopt the ring as his profession, but who has never as yet fought in public.  Names, gentlemen, as you know, are seldom mentioned here.  I will only say that the first in the ring is the nominee of our friend and host, Sir Timothy Brast; second comes the nominee of Lord Meadowson.”

Wilmore, notwithstanding his pre-knowledge, gave a little gasp.  The young man who stood now within a few yards of him, carelessly swinging his gloves in his hand, was without a doubt his missing brother.  He looked well and in the pink of condition; not only well but entirely confident and at his ease.  His opponent, on the other hand, a sturdier man, a few inches shorter, was nervous and awkward, though none the less determined-looking.  Sir Timothy rose and whispered in Harrison’s ear.  The latter nodded.  In a very few moments the preliminaries were concluded, the fight begun.