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The Champion whistled as the door closed behind her, and mopped his brow with his red bandanna handkerchief as he looked across at his abashed companion. “My word, lad,” said he, “it’s earnest from this day on.”

“Yes,” said Tom Spring, solemnly, “it’s earnest from this day on.”

In the course of the next fortnight the lady made several surprise visits to see that her champion was being properly prepared for the contest which lay before him. At the most unexpected moments she would burst into the training quarters, but never again had she to complain of any slackness upon his part or that of his trainer. With long bouts of the gloves, with thirty-mile walks, with mile runs at the back of a mailcart with a bit of blood between the shafts, with interminable series of jumps with a skipping-rope, he was sweated down until his trainer was able to proudly proclaim that “the last ounce of tallow is off him and he is ready to fight for his life.” Only once was the lady accompanied by any one upon these visits of inspection. Upon this occasion a tall young man was her companion. He was graceful in figure, aristocratic in his bearing, and would have been strikingly handsome had it not been for some accident which had shattered his nose and broken all the symmetry of his features. He stood in silence with moody eyes and folded arms, looking at the splendid torso of the prize-fighter as, stripped to the waist, he worked with his dumbbells.

“Don’t you think he will do?” said the lady.

The young swell shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t like it, cara mia. I can’t pretend that I like it.”

“You must like it, George. I have set my very heart on it.”

“It is not English, you know. Lucrezia Borgia and Mediaeval Italy. Woman’s love and woman’s hatred are always the same, but this particular manifestation of it seems to me out of place in nineteenth-century London.”

“Is not a lesson needed?”

“Yes, yes; but one would think there were other ways.”

“You tried another way. What did you get out of that?”

The young man smiled rather grimly, as he turned up his cuff and looked at a puckered hole in his wrist.

“Not much, certainly,” said he.

“You’ve tried and failed.”

“Yes, I must admit it.”

“What else is there? The law?”

“Good gracious, no!”

“Then it is my turn, George, and I won’t be balked.”

“I don’t think any one is capable of balking you, cara mia. Certainly I, for one, should never dream of trying. But I don’t feel as if I could co-operate,”

“I never asked you to.”

“No, you certainly never did. You are perfectly capable of doing it alone. I think, with your leave, if you have quite done with your prize-fighter, we will drive back to London. I would not for the world miss Goldoni in the Opera.”

So they drifted away; he, frivolous and dilettante, she with her face as set as Fate, leaving the fighting men to their business.

And now the day came when Cribb was able to announce to his employer that his man was as fit as science could make him.

“I can do no more, ma’am. He’s fit to fight for a kingdom. Another week would see him stale.”

The lady looked Spring over with the eye of a connoisseur.

“I think he does you credit,” she said at last. “Today is Tuesday. He will fight the day after tomorrow.”

“Very good, ma’am. Where shall he go?”

“I will tell you exactly, and you will please take careful note of all that I say. You, Mr. Cribb, will take your man down to the Golden Cross Inn at Charing Cross by nine o’clock on Wednesday morning. He will take the Brighton coach as far as Tunbridge Wells, where he will alight at the Royal Oak Arms. There he will take such refreshment as you advise before a fight. He will wait at the Royal Oak Arms until he receives a message by word, or by letter, brought him by a groom in a mulberry livery. This message will give him his final instructions.”