THE GOD OF THE GONGS
"Well, well, well!" said the nobleman, with a touch of frosty humour. "Who's going to be killed? The referee?"
"I don't know who's going to be killed," replied Father Brown, with a reflective stare. "If I did I shouldn't have to spoil your pleasure. I could simply get him to escape. I never could see anything wrong about prize-fights. As it is, I must ask you to announce that the fight is off for the present."
"Anything else?" jeered the gentleman with feverish eyes. "And what do you say to the two thousand people who have come to see it?"
"I say there will be one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine of them left alive when they have seen it," said Father Brown.
Lord Pooley looked at Flambeau. "Is your friend mad?" he asked.
"Far from it," was the reply.
"And look here," resumed Pooley in his restless way, "it's worse than that. A whole pack of Italians have turned up to back Malvoli—swarthy, savage fellows of some country, anyhow. You know what these Mediterranean races are like. If I send out word that it's off we shall have Malvoli storming in here at the head of a whole Corsican clan."
"My lord, it is a matter of life and death," said the priest. "Ring your bell. Give your
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