He had not long to wait. A young white-limbed fellow, with a pompadour of stiff hair rising above the black mask that covered him from mid-forehead to just above his mouth, vaulted over the ropes into the ring, and took the stool in the opposite corner to that in which Cluett stood. There was something about the lines of the stranger's mouth and chin that seemed to Daisy vaguely familiar. After vainly trying to remember where she had seen similar features before, the girl turned her eyes toward the corner where Cluett had just sat down on the stool. The champion, his elbows on his knees and his head leaning forward in its customary attitude, was looking at his latest opponent with a certain interest. Whether it was that the mask piqued his curiosity, or that there was something in the build and agility of the unknown which indexed prowess, was not evident to Daisy; but Miss Yockley murmured, half to herself: "Sa-ay! Watch Nicky prick up his ears. He sees something--I don't know what it is, but I know he sees it." As the gong sounded for the first round and the two got up from their stools, it was evident to the professional eye that Cluett's new opponent was, at any rate, more nearly his equal than the ill-fortuned Mr. Hobday. "Say!" Miss Yockley's tone thrilled with reluctant admiration, "did you notice the footwork of that boy?... No, you don't, Mr. Mask.... Yes, you did, too! Sa-ay, you better watch that lad, Nicky Cluett!" The last three ejaculations as the masked fighter tried for the head and--marvel of marvels to Cluett's admirers!--landed. Landed lightly; but landed, nevertheless. As this happened, there came a hush of conversation all over the house. From boxes and orchestra circle, and gallery and balcony there sounded, as it were, one simultaneous creak as the audience leaned forward in their seats. Nick Cluett was still smiling the smile that had never been known to leave his face, even in sleep. But, otherwise, his whole demeanor had changed. His arms, instead of swinging careless and indolently half-crooked, at his sides, were raised in his low impassable guard. His back, straight from hips to shoulder, leaned a little forward. The head was bent in his customary fighting pose, forehead out and chin in. "'Watch', was what I said," Miss Yockley, gloved hands clasped together with feminine tenseness under her chin, breathed, to everybody in general, "and I hope you're watching, for th' sake of what you'll miss if you ain't." The champion was following the stranger around the ring. The masked man, with light hissings of his shoes on the canvas floor, backed at exactly the same pace, carefully avoiding corners, seeming to know where he was by instinct and without the necessity of what would have been an instantly-disastrous look over-shoulder. There was neither blow nor feint. Sometimes the gloves of the fighters touched, but the impact was feather-light and without audible sound.