The Saint’s probing eyes drooped with offensive restraint.
“You seem to lack a certain enthusiasm for your future son-in-law,” he observed.
“Not my son-in-law!” roared the promoter. “No common knuckle-head box fighter is going to marry the daughter of Mike Grady, I can tell you. I don’t know what tales you been hearing, but she’s not marrying that punk, you can depend on it!”
“What are you going to do — forbid the banns?”
“I’ll not see her tied to a lowser with no more future than a cake of ice,” Grady said belligerently. “I’ve seen what happens to the most of ’em after their fightin’ days are done, with their brains addled and the eyes knocked out of ’em, no money saved, and their wives drudges!”
The Saint built an “O” with a smoke-ring.
“So that’s why you quarrelled.”
“I wouldn’t call it a quarrel.” The promoter’s eyes glittered. “I told him just what I’ve told you, and I told him to let Connie alone.”
“But if Steve is retiring after his fight with the Angel, as he says—”
“Sure! That’s what he says,” Grady snorted. “How many times have I heard that one before! So, he’s retiring. On what?”