He sprang out, handed the driver a bill, and started toward the entrance of the apartment house.
“Wait a minute, mister!” came the driver’s voice. “This is a ten-spot.”
“All right; keep it,” replied Knowlton.
He halted and turned to observe the curious phenomenon — a New York taxicab driver who announced that he had been paid too much! He heard his cry of “Thank ye sir!” and saw him mount his seat and send his taxi off at a speed that carried him out of sight in three seconds.
As Knowlton turned again to mount the stoop he noticed a big red limousine approaching from the east slowly. He glanced at it in idle curiosity as it stopped directly in front of his own door, then began to move up the steps, feeling in his pocket for his key.
Suddenly he was halted by a shout from the street:
“Is that you, Knowlton?”
The voice was Tom Dougherty’s.
Knowlton, mastering his surprise, with his hand on his key in the door, turned and sang out:
“Yes. What do you want?”
Three men had got out of the limousine and were standing on the edge of the sidewalk. In front was Dougherty; Knowlton recognized him by his slouch hat. Dougherty made a step forward as he called in a lower tone:
“Come here.”
Knowlton understood, of course, what was up. That is, he knew why they wanted him — but what did they want? And, being curious and by no means a coward he decided to find out. He stepped back to the sidewalk and across to the three men.
“Well?” he inquired coolly.
Dougherty pointed to the limousine.
“Get in!” he commanded.
The other two men, whom Knowlton saw to be Sherman and Jennings, made a cautious step forward, evidently with the intention of getting between him and the door.
“Take it easy,” advised Knowlton, smiling at them composedly. “If I want to go in,” he nodded toward the door of the apartment house, “I’ll go. And now, Dougherty, what is it you want? I’d advise you not to try any tricks.”
“To Hades with your advice!” put in Sherman. “This is our game.”
“Shut up!” growled Dougherty. Then he turned to Knowlton. “You know why we’re after you. Dumain and Driscoll and Booth are waiting at Dumain’s rooms. We’ll give you a fair chance in ten-round go with Driscoll. But, believe me, he’ll beat you up right. And if he don’t, I will.”
Knowlton gazed at the ex-prizefighter for a second in silence, then started toward the limousine.
“You say this is a square deal, Dougherty?” he asked, turning suddenly.
Dougherty, amazed at his coolness, replied that it was.
Knowlton continued:
“I’m willing to take you on one at a time, but I don’t care to walk into a trap.”
He looked at Dougherty for another minute, appeared to hesitate, then jumped up on the seat in front beside the chauffeur.
“You’ll freeze, man!” exclaimed Dougherty, while Sherman and Jennings got in the limousine. “Get inside with us.”
“No thanks,” said Knowlton dryly. “I prefer the cold.”
Dumain’s rooms were only a few blocks away, and within five minutes the limousine had stopped in front of them. The cold wind rushing against Knowlton with stinging force had set every nerve in his body tingling and filled him with a glow of exhilaration.
Dumain’s rooms — on Twenty-first Street a little west of Sixth Avenue — were on the first floor of a four-story apartment house, with an old-fashioned high stoop leading to the door. Up the steps of this went Dougherty, with Knowlton at his side, followed by Sherman and Jennings. In answer to their ring Dumain himself opened the door.
“Did you get heem?” he asked.
“I came,” Knowlton answered before Dougherty could speak.
Dumain led them down a long hall and into a room on the right.
Evidently this room — a large one — had been arranged for the expected encounter. It was bare of furniture save for a row of chairs along the further wall. The floor was partly covered with a coarse Wilton rug.
At one end, in the center, was a high mantel loaded down with vases, bronzes, trays, and pasteboard boxes — these latter evidently containing some of the paraphernalia of the palmist.” The two windows at the opposite end were closed and the shades drawn.
Driscoll and Booth were seated on two of the chairs along the wall when the newcomers entered.
“All ready, eh?” Knowlton observed, standing in the middle of the room and looking around with an amused smile.
Dougherty regarded him with undisguised admiration.
“By gad, you’re a cool one!” he remarked.
Knowlton walked over to a chair and sat down without answering him.
The others were gathered together in a group by the door, consulting in undertones, with occasional glances at Knowlton. Finally, with nods of satisfaction and at a word from Dumain, they crossed the room and seated themselves.
The little Frenchman stood in front of them and spoke:
“We deed not come here to talk. I will say very leetle. I will mention no names. Zat is, I will not mention her name. Eet ees to be a fight for ten rounds by Meester Dreescoll and Meester Knowlton. Meester Dougherty will referee. Meester Knowlton must have what you call a second. Will you be heem, Sherman?”
“No!” Knowlton interposed. “I want no second. I shan’t need any.”
Dougherty sprang to his feet impatiently.
“Strip, then!” he shouted.
The combatants lost no time. Driscoll carried a chair to the corner of the room near the door; Knowlton carried one to the opposite corner. Then, stripping bare to the waist, each seated himself to await the call of the referee. Booth stood by Driscoll’s chair, holding his overcoat. The others were seated in the chairs along the wall.
“Two-minute rounds,” announced Dougherty from the middle of the room. He was in his shirtsleeves and was holding a watch in his hand. Then, stepping to one side, he called:
“Time!”
The fighters, as they advanced to the center of the room, appeared to be evenly matched in weight and build. Their white bodies, trim and supple, glowed from the sudden contact with the air, for even within the room it was chilly.
But a closer inspection revealed a difference. Driscoll was a little too fat; his arms too plump and smooth. And his step to the practised eye lacked elasticity and lightness. His eyes gleamed with a wariness and alertness which it was impossible to communicate to the body, handicapped as it was.
A little murmur of astonishment ran along the quartet of spectators as they turned their eyes on Knowlton, and the referee, in his surprise, nearly dropped his watch.
Here was a man worth looking at. His flesh, white and smooth as his opponent’s, showed little muscular ripples as he bent forward in a posture of defense, and his arms, firm and of goodly length, displayed magnificent knots on the inner forearm and from the elbow to the shoulder. His waist was small, and under the skin on the back of the shoulders appeared tightly drawn, steel-like bands of muscle.
Exclamations in undertones came from the row of chairs:
“Heavens! The man’s a white hope!”
“I’d hate to be in Driscoll’s place!”
“Where d’ye suppose he got it?”
On the face of Sherman, who was silent, appeared a curious expression of mingled fear and hatred.
Really, there was no mystery about it. The athletic records of a certain Western university could have explained all in five minutes. This was the man who had made it necessary for that university to add another cabinet to their trophy and medal room.
But, feeling as they did that their man was hopelessly beaten on form, the Erring Knights nevertheless urged him on with cheering words as the fighters squared off.