A moment later the door opened to admit a clean-shaven little man of about fifty, prosperous in build and appearance; but obviously labouring under some great excitement. His breath came in short, spasmodic gasps. His thin sandy hair had clearly not been brushed since the day before, whilst his chin and upper lip bore obvious traces of a night's growth of beard. He seemed on the point of collapse. "He's gone--disappeared!" he burst out, as Rogers closed the door behind him. Malcolm Sage rose, motioned his caller to a chair at the table, and resumed his own seat. "Had breakfast?" he enquired quietly, resuming his occupation of getting the toast carefully and artistically buttered. "Good God, man!" exploded Mr. Doulton, almost hysterically. "Don't you understand? Burns has disappeared!" "I gathered as much," said Malcolm Sage calmly, as he reached for the marmalade. "Pond telephoned from Stainton," continued Mr. Doulton. "I was in Fed. I got dressed, and came round here at once. I----" he stopped suddenly, as Rogers entered with a fresh relay of coffee. Without a word he proceeded to pour out a cup for Mr. Doulton, who, after a moment's hesitation, drank it greedily. Rogers glanced interrogatingly from the dish that had contained eggs and bacon to Malcolm Sage, who nodded. When he had withdrawn, Mr. Doulton opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and gazed at Malcolm Sage, who, having superimposed upon the butter a delicate amber film of marmalade, proceeded to cut up the toast into a series of triangles. Apparently it was the only thing in life that interested him. For weeks past the British and American sporting world had thought and talked of nothing but the forthcoming fight between Charley Burns and Bob Jefferson for the heavyweight championship of the world. The event was due to take place two days hence at the Olympia for a purse of 40,000 pounds offered by Mr. Montague Doulton, the prince of impresarios. Never had a contest been looked forward to with greater eagerness than the Burns v. Jefferson match. A great change had come over public opinion in regard to prize-fighting, thanks to the elevating influence of Mr. Doulton. It was no longer referred to as "brutalising" and "debasing." Refined and nice-minded people found themselves mildly interested and patriotically hopeful that Charley Burns, the British champion, would win. In two years Mr. Doulton had achieved what the National Sporting Club had failed to do in a quarter of a century. Long and patiently he had laboured to bring about this match, which many thought would prove the keystone to the arch of Burns's fame, incidentally to that of the impresario himself. "And now he's disappeared--clean gone." Mr. Doulton almost sobbed. "Tell me." Malcolm Sage looked up from his plate, the last triangle of toast poised between finger and thumb. In short staccatoed sentences, like bursts from a machine-gun, Mr. Doulton proceeded to tell his story.