THE Marquis of Pelborough was not a very earnest student of the newspapers, except of those pages devoted to sport, and more especially to the fistic art. There was probably no greater authority in England on the relative merits of light- and feather-weights than this mild young man, of whom the great “Kid” Steel had said, in his own simple way: “Dat guy’s gotta foot like a fairy an’ a punch like de kick of a broncho.”
Chick, as a rule, merely glimpsed the pages containing the troubles of the hour (and “news,” as it is understood in Fleet Street, is only trouble in some form or other), but one morning his attention was arrested by a “scare-line” to a long paragraph, and he read:
“Following upon the arrest by Inspector Fuller of a number of men who are believed to be a dangerous g**g of i
