A sudden look of apprehension in the man's eyes seemed to suggest that he at least understood. He hesitated for a moment, then, with a gruff "Wait there," shut the door in Malcolm Sage's face. Three minutes later he opened it again and, inviting him to enter, led the way along a passage, at the end of which was a door, which the man threw open. Malcolm Sage found himself in a darkened room, from which the light was excluded by heavy curtains. For a moment he looked about him, unable to distinguish any object. When his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw seated in an armchair a man with a handkerchief held to his face. "Mr. Goldschmidt?" he interrogated, as he seated himself in the centre of the room. "Well, what is it?" was the thickly spoken retort. "I came to ask your views on the fight to-morrow night, and to enquire if you think the odds of nine to two on Jefferson are justified." There was an exclamation from the arm-chair. "If you've got anything to say," said the thick voice angrily, "get it off your chest and go--to hell," he added, as an afterthought. "What do you want?" the voice demanded, as Malcolm Sage remained silent. "I want you to take a little run with me in my car," said Malcolm Sage evenly. "Fresh air will do your nose good." "What the----" the man broke off, apparently choked with passion, then, recovering himself, added, "Here, cough it up, or else I'll have you thrown out into the street! What is it?" "I want either you, or one of your friends, to come with me to where Charley Burns has been taken." There was a stifled exclamation from the chair, then a howl of agony as the hand holding the handkerchief dropped. At the same moment three men burst into the room. Malcolm Sage's back was to the door. He did not even turn to look at them. Somebody switched on the light, and Malcolm Sage saw before him the puffy face of a man of about sixty, in the centre of which was a hideous purple splotch that had once been a nose. A moment later the handkerchief obscured the unsavoury sight. "What the hell's all this about?" shouted one of the men, advancing into the room, the others remaining by the door. Slowly Malcolm Sage turned and regarded the three men, whose appearance proclaimed their pugilistic calling. "I was just asking Mr. Goldschmidt to be so good as to accompany me to where Charley Burns is----" He was interrupted by exclamations from all three men. "What the hell do you mean?" demanded he who had spoken, a dark, ill-favoured fellow with a brow like a rainy sky. "I will tell you," said Malcolm Sage. "Last night Mr. Goldschmidt, accompanied by certain friends, went to Burns's training-quarters to keep an appointment made in the name of a girl friend of Burns. He came out quite unsuspectingly, was overpowered, and subsequently taken in Mr. Goldschmidt's car to a place with which I am unacquainted, so that he shall not appear at the Olympia to-morrow night."