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"So far, a bloody nose," I said.
He smiled slightly. "That's the good way to begin; that's the start."
"I guess that's right," I said.
"There's a lot more to it," he went on.
I must have looked puzzled.
"Stick to it," he said. "You've got a lot to find out about. Don't let it go, hey?"
"No," I said vaguely, "I won't."
I never discovered who he was.
Stillman's cleared out, finally. The fighters, who had been standing along the back wall to watch the strange proceedings, took over the premises again; they climbed into the rings; the trainers sat down in the front seats, gossiping; things returned to normal.
I was told later that at seven o'clock or so the Duchess d'Uz�s had arrived. She was not a duchess then (she had a marriage or so to go before she became one) but she had the airs: she was delivered to the door of Stillman's in a Rolls-Royce. She stepped out and hurried up the stairs. She was famous for being late—even at her own extravagant parties, where her guests stood yawning with hunger, waiting for her to come down the long, curved stair and make an entrance—and she paused at the turnstile, a lovely, graceful girl who often wore light-blue chiffon to set off her golden hair.