He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The bearded one turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man; he looked a powerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero he would have played the part to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their "power" and manliness. He had a cigarette between his thick, red, bearded lips. Jones wasn't much to look at, but he had practised at odd times at Joe Hennessy's, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger. He struck out, missed, got a drum sounder in on the left ribs, right under the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella--and then--swift as light got in an upper cut on the whiskers under the left side of the jaw. The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from under them, then, shouting for help--that was the humorous and pitiable part of it--scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again. Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortally injured. The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds. You can fancy the scene. Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen the display--and at the National Sporting Club you often pay five pounds to see worse--were moving away together through the throng, the floored one with arms still out, was murmuring: "Brandee--brandee," into the ear of a kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones' side. Jones took him apart a few steps. "I am the Earl of Rochester," said he, in a half whisper. "That guy has got what he wanted--never mind what he was doing--kick the beast awake and ask him if he wants to prosecute." The constable came and stood over the head end of the sufferer, who was now leaning on one arm. "Do you want to prosecute this gentleman?" asked the constable. "Nichevo," murmured the other. "No. Brandee." "Thought so," said Jones. Then he walked away towards the entrance with the constable. "My address is Carlton House Terrace," said he. "When you get that chap on his pins you can tell him to come there and I'll give him another dose. Here's a sovereign for you." "Thanks, your Lordship," said the guardian of the Peace, "you landed him fine, I will say. I didn't see the beginning of the scrap, but I saw the knock out--you won't have any more bother with him." "I don't think so," said Jones. He was elated, jubilant, a weight seemed lifted from his mind, all his evil humour had vanished. The feel of those whiskers and the resisting jaw was still with him, he had got one good blow in at circumstance and the world. He could have sung. He was coming out of the station when someone ran up from behind. It was Venetia. Venetia, delirious and jabbering. "Teresa is in the car--You have done it now--you have done it now. What _made_ you do this awful thing? Are you mad? Here in the open station--before everyone--you have h-h-heaped this last disgrace on us--on _me_."