Much of the general conversation concerned the coming bouts. Opinions were freely expressed as to the abilities and merits of different contestants and there was much good-natured argument and banter. There was also not a little quiet betting. In one of the big main rooms of the club, Merry met three Yale men, who expressed their delight at seeing him there. While he was talking with them François L’Estrange came up. The Frenchman knew them also, and he paused to shake hands all round. “What’s the matter, L’Estrange?” asked one. “You seem rather downcast and troubled over something.” The fencing master shrugged his shoulders. “Eet is unfortunate,” he declared. “I haf to geef you ze information zat there will be no fencing zis night.” “Why, how is that?” they exclaimed. “Meestare Marlowe, who was to meet Meestare Darleton, ees not here.” “Not here?” “No.” “Where is he?” “He haf sent ze word zat he is very ill.” “Cold feet!” cried one of the gentlemen. “That’s what’s the matter! Marlowe squeals!” “Sure thing!” agreed another. “It’s a shame, but he has made a clean backdown.” “He was all right last night. I saw him then,” put in the third gentleman. “Eet is very strange,” said L’Estrange regretfully. “I understand eet not why he should haf ze cold feet and be ill. I suppose ze cold feet ees unpleasant, but zey should not make him squeal.” “What we mean,” explained the first gentleman, “is that he is afraid to meet Darleton. He has defeated every opponent in the contests, and it has been his boast that he would defeat Darleton. His nerve failed him.” “Eet ruin ze sport for zis night,” declared the fencing master. “Zere ees no one who is for Meestare Darleton ze efen match, so zere will be no fencing.” At this point Darleton himself, accompanied as usual by his chum, Grant Hardy, came pushing through the throng, espied L’Estrange and hurried up. “I’ve been looking for you, professor!” he exclaimed. “What’s this about Marlowe? Is it true that he has quit?” “Eet is true.” “Well, that’s just about the sort I took him to be!” cried Darleton angrily. “He’s a great case of bluff! He’s a bag of wind! He’s a quitter! He knew I’d defeat him. Now, what are we going to do?” “Zere is nothing we can do,” answered the fencing master regretfully. “And our go was to be the feature to-night. Every one will be disappointed. It’s a shame. Besides that, Marlowe had no right not to give me a chance to show him up. I meant to put it all over him, the slob!” Darleton’s chagrin over his lost opportunity to “put it all over” the other fellow seemed to lead him into a complete loss of temper, and he indulged in language which on any occasion he would have condemned in another. Suddenly his eyes fell on Frank Merriwell, and a peculiar expression came to his face.