"My mind's made up; I'll write, and have done with it!" He sat down to his writing on the spot; actually finished the letter; another minute would have dispatched it to the post--and, in that minute, the maddening indecision took possession of him once more.
He opened the letter again, read it over again, and tore it up again.
"I'm out of my mind!" cried Geoffrey, fixing his big bewildered blue eyes fiercely on the professor who trained him.

"Thunder and lightning! Explosion and blood! Send for Crouch." Crouch (known and respected wherever English manhood is known and respected) was a retired prize-fighter.

He appeared with the third and last remedy for clearing the mind known to the Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn--namely, two pair of boxing-gloves in a carpet-bag.
The gentleman and the prize-fighter put on the gloves, and faced each other in the classically correct posture of pugilistic defense.

"None of your play, mind!" growled Geoffrey.

"Fight, you beggar, as if you were in the Ring again with orders to win." No man knew better than the great and terrible Crouch what real fighting meant, and what heavy blows might be given even with such apparently harmless weapons as stuffed and padded gloves.