“Where is he?”
“He haf sent ze word zat he is very ill.”
“Cold feet!” cried one of the gentlemen. “That’s what’s the matter! Marlowe squeals!”
“Sure thing!” agreed another. “It’s a shame, but he has made a clean backdown.”
“He was all right last night. I saw him then,” put in the third gentleman.
“Eet is very strange,” said L’Estrange regretfully. “I understand eet not why he should haf ze cold feet and be ill. I suppose ze cold feet ees unpleasant, but zey should not make him squeal.”
“What we mean,” explained the first gentleman, “is that he is afraid to meet Darleton. He has defeated every opponent in the contests, and it has been his boast that he would defeat Darleton. His nerve failed him.”
“Eet ruin ze sport for zis night,” declared the fencing master. “Zere ees no one who is for Meestare Darleton ze efen match, so zere will be no fencing.”
At this point Darleton himself, accompanied as usual by his chum, Grant Hardy, came pushing through the throng, espied L’Estrange and hurried up.
“I’ve been looking for you, professor!” he exclaimed. “What’s this about Marlowe? Is it true that he has quit?”