‘Fingo’ Bradshaw sat at his breakfast-table and read a letter. It was of highly-scented, unusually-coloured paper. To be precise—of a delicate shade of pink. The perfume cannot be placed. The writing was in red ink. The New Zealander from Dagen Bay frowned as he read it. The reader is cordially invited to look over his shoulder and share his confidence. The letter ran as follows.
Ingestre Court Hotel, Bayswater.
Dear Mr. Bradshaw,
The writer of this letter to you, is a person who is fabulously rich and who also takes an almost indecent interest in Boxing. This hobby has already led him into nearly all the countries of the world. With many elations and but few regrets. The news of your coming contest with Roger Lebon has reached his ears and it is with regard to this, that he is writing to you. Because, frankly, knowing your record as well as you know it yourself, he is convinced that you are worthy of flying at much higher game than Roger Lebon. He is convinced, too, that he can put before you an offer which will make your mouth water! If you accept it—and you will be a fool to refuse—not only will you climb to almost instant fame by reason of the programme which he is prepared to place before you, but you will also have your fingers on a fortune. For the time being he must remain anonymous. He can allow no man or woman to proclaim to the world that he or she turned down a business offer which emanated from him. That is not part of the writer’s personal creed. He is too proud to have that happen. The address he has given will not help you to identify him. There are many people at Ingestre Court at the present time and one will act as the writer’s agent at a later date, if so desired. But if you think kindly of the suggestion, please be outside the telephone kiosk a few yards from the hotel at 7 p.m. tomorrow. The writer knows you . . . he saw you beat Dellabritto at Otago . . . and you will soon recognize him. Yours always, ‘Fisticuffs.’
Bradshaw read the effusion twice. His frown deepened. But he was curious. Curiosity, ambition and a fervent desire for success with her attendant hand-maidens were all clustered in his character, He held the letter, and then the envelope in which it had arrived, to his sensitive nostrils. ‘Suppose he uses this sort of stuff because he’s a millionaire’ thought ‘Fingo’—‘I wonder.’
He turned up the number of the Ingestre Court Hotel in the telephone directory. Then he closed the book slowly and shook his head. To rise, however, within a few minutes, pick up the receiver and dial a number.