"Knock the stuffing out of me, will he? I'll tear him limb from limb! The insidious villain! I'll teach him to come between me and the woman I love!" Sad to relate Pollyooly's heart, inured to violence by her battles with the young male inhabitants of the slum behind the Temple, where she had lodged before becoming the housekeeper of the Honourable John Ruffin, leapt joyfully at the thought of the fray, in spite of her friendship with Hilary Vance; and her quick mind grasped the fact that she might watch it in security from the door of her bedroom. Then her duty to her host came uppermost. "But please, Mr. Vance: he's a boxer. He boxes at the Chiswick Polytechnic," she cried anxiously. "Let him box! I'll tear him limb from limb!" roared Hilary Vance ferociously; and he strode up and down the studio, limping that he might not press heavily on his aching toes. Pollyooly gazed at him doubtfully. Flossie's account of Mr. Butterwick's prowess had impressed her too deeply to permit her to believe that anything but painful ignominious defeat awaited Hilary Vance at his hands. "But he blacks people's eyes and makes their noses bleed," protested Pollyooly. "I'll tear him limb from limb!" roared Hilary Vance, still ferociously, but with less conviction in his tone. "And he doesn't care how big anybody is, if they don't know how to box," Pollyooly insisted. "No more do I!" roared Hilary Vance. He stamped up and down the studio yet more vigorously since his aching toes were growing easier. Then he sank into a chair--a stronger chair--gingerly; and in a more moderate tone said: "I'll have the scoundrel's blood. I'll teach him to cross my path." He paused, considering the matter more coldly, and Pollyooly anxiously watched his working face. Little by little it grew calmer. "After all it may not be the scoundrel's fault," he said in a tone of some magnanimity. "I know what women are--treachery for treachery's sake. Why should I destroy the poor wretch whose heart has probably been as scored as mine by the discovery of her treachery? He is a fellow victim." "And perhaps you mightn't destroy him--if he's such a good boxer," said Pollyooly anxiously. "I should certainly destroy him," said Hilary Vance with a dignified certainty. "But to what purpose? Would it give me back my unstained ideal? No. The ideal once tarnished never shines as bright again." His face was now calm--calm and growing sorrowful. Then a sudden apprehension appeared on it: "Besides--suppose I broke a finger--a finger of my right hand. Why should I give this blackguard a chance of maiming me?" he cried, and looked at Pollyooly earnestly. "I don't know, Mr. Vance," said Pollyooly, answering the question in his urgent eyes. "If I did break a finger, it might be weeks--months before I could work again. Why, I might never be able to work again!" he cried. "That's just what Mr. James was afraid of," said Pollyooly.