“Well, for one or two reasons,” Baker answered. “One, no doubt, is because Sir Timothy has a great idea of arranging the fights himself, and the opponents actually don't know until the fight begins whom they are meeting, and sometimes not even then. There has been some gossiping, too, about the rules, and the weight of the gloves, but that I know, nothing about.”
“And the rest of the show?” a younger member enquired. “Is it simply dancing and music and that sort of thing?”
“Just a variety entertainment,” the proud possessor of the scarlet-hued ticket declared. “Sir Timothy always has something up his sleeve. Last year, for instance, he had those six African girls over from Paris in that queer dance which they wouldn't allow in London at all. This time no one knows what is going to happen. The house, as you know, is absolutely surrounded by that hideous stone wall, and from what I have heard, reporters who try to get in aren't treated too kindly. Here's Ledsam. Very likely he knows more about it.”
“Ledsam,” some one demanded, as Francis joined the group, “are you going to Sir Timothy Brast's show to-morrow night?”
“I hope so,” Francis replied, producing his strip of pasteboard.
“Ever been before?”
“Never.”
“Do you know what sort of a show it's going to be?” the actor enquired.
“Not the slightest idea. I don't think any one does. That's rather a feature of the affair, isn't it?”
“It is the envious outsider who has never received an invitation, like myself,” some one remarked, “who probably spreads these rumours, for one always hears it hinted that some disgraceful and illegal exhibition is on tap there—a new sort of drugging party, or some novel form of debauchery.”