“Is that so!” ejaculated Fleming with a quickening of interest. “What does he seem to have against him?”
“Oh, that’s more than I know,” was the reply. “But he seems to have a bitter grudge from the way he talks.”
“Do you know Connelly personally?” demanded Fleming.
“In a way I do,” replied Bixby. “I met him at a prize fight once in Chicago and was introduced to him. I don’t know whether he’d remember me or not. But why do you ask?”
“I’d like to meet him if you don’t mind,” answered Fleming.
Bixby was somewhat surprised but did not object, and the two wended their way among the tables till they came to the one in question.
“How are you, Mr. Connelly?” said Bixby. “I don’t know whether you recall me, but I met you at that Welsh-Leonard bout in Chicago last year. Bixby is my name.”
It was Connelly’s business to recollect faces, or to pretend to even if he did not.
“Sure, I remember you,” he replied with the real or assumed heartiness of his class. “Glad to see you again, Mr. Bixby.”
“This is my friend, Mr. Fleming,” introduced Bixby.