"Adderley!" repeated Piers. "I know him. He gave me some quite useful
tips once. What happened? It's the first I've heard of it."

"Well, he's a murderer," said Sir Beverley. "And he deserves to be
hanged. He killed his man,--whether by a foul or not I can't say; but
anyway he meant to kill him. It's obvious on the face of it. But they
chose to bring it in manslaughter, and he's only got five years; while
some brainless fool must needs write an article a column and a half long
to protest against the disgraceful practice of permitting wrestling or
boxing matches, which are a survival of the Dark Ages and a perpetual
menace to our civilization! A survival of your grandmother! A nice set of
nincompoops the race will develop into if such fools as that get their
way! We're soft enough as it is, Heaven knows. Why couldn't they hang the
scoundrel as he deserved? That's the surest way of putting an end to
savagery. But to stop the sport altogether! It would be tomfoolery!"

Piers picked up the paper from the floor and smoothed it out. He
proceeded to study it with drawn brows, and Sir Beverley sat and
watched him with that in his stone-grey eyes which no one was ever
allowed to see.

"Eat your crumpets, boy!" he said at last.

"What?" Piers glanced up momentarily. "Oh, all right, sir, in a minute.
This is rather an interesting case, what? You see, Adderley was a
friend of mine."

"When did you meet him?" demanded Sir Beverley.

"I knew him in my school-days. He spent a whole term in the