Chapter V: The Face in the Mirror

Anxiety continued to be present in Lefty’s mind at frequent intervals during the trip East. It made him begin even to doubt his own judgment, and wonder if, after all, he had been wise in recommending a pitcher of whom he really knew nothing personally. It was quite possible that Gene Temple might turn out to be as undesirable as Savage, in spite of the record he had made on the diamond the previous season. All this was not exactly pleasant to contemplate, especially when Lefty recalled the manner in which he had really persuaded Jack Kennedy, against the latter’s judgment and inclination, to consent to the trial.

The fact that the Sharks’ manager was away and did not return until the second day after Locke’s arrival in New York was not calculated to relieve Lefty’s worry. When at length he did see Mr. Amos Jillson, however, the latter’s demeanor was reassuring. After a momentary flash of annoyance, he began to blackguard Temple strenuously. The fellow was wild, undependable, even tricky, he said. He’d been thinking, in fact, of sending him back to the bushes again. It was a sure thing that a man of his caliber wouldn’t last a week in such an organization as the Blue Stockings.

Knowing the subterfuges of the trade, Lefty listened to it all with bland composure, quite unmoved. When the manager realized what he was up against, he became curt, almost pettish, and went through the formalities of transference with the greatest possible dispatch.

Temple resided with his parents in the neighboring village of Belle View, so Lefty was briefly informed. He had never heard of this rising suburb, and when he tried to reach it by means of a very circuitous trolley line, he hoped fervently that he might never have occasion to seek it again.

It had been dark for over an hour when he finally alighted from the car, stiff, cold, and decidedly hungry. Had he entertained the least conception of the time required to make the journey, it would certainly have been put off until the next day. But once he had found Temple, the interview was not likely to take long. Then he could get a bite to eat and find some way of returning more directly to New York and civilization.

The fairly well-lighted main street of Belle View was lined with small shops in trim new buildings. Most of them were closed, but the brilliant windows of one attracted Lefty’s eye. He had almost reached the door, perceiving with approval that it was a clean, neat-looking little restaurant, when the sight of a railroad track flanked by an exceedingly up-to-date station of stucco made him give a deep sigh of thankfulness.

Within five minutes he had learned from the ticket seller everything he wished to know. New York, by underground, was exactly twenty-eight minutes away. There was a train at seven-forty-three, and another at nine-forty-five. It was now a few minutes before seven. Eight minutes’ brisk walking would bring him to the Temple house.

It did not take Lefty long to make up his mind. If he stopped to get something to eat first, he would miss the earlier train, and be in for a tiresome wait of more than two hours. By hunting up Temple at once, dinner would be delayed not more than half or three-quarters of an hour longer, and he could have it in quiet comfort at his own hotel. With a word of thanks to the communicative agent, the pitcher hastily left the station, and walked briskly up the street.

Three blocks straight ahead, the man had said, two blocks to the left, then turn to the right, and take the house on the next right-hand corner. Lefty found the blocks inordinately long, as country blocks are likely to be, but there was no difficulty whatever in following the agent’s directions to the letter.

“Some class to this town!” the ball player reflected as he turned the last corner, on which stood an attractive concrete bungalow. “Next right-hand corner, he said. That would be it at the end of the block.”

There were only three houses in the entire block, which was shorter than the others he had traversed. The concrete bungalow occupied the first corner; then came a low, rambling house set back from the street, and gleaming hospitably with lights. A long stretch of vacant property followed before the neat hedge and well-kept grounds of the Temple place were reached.

This house also stood well back from the street, and Lefty was halfway up the walk before he noticed how dark and gloomy it seemed. A clump of evergreens shielded it from the street light. Not a solitary gleam showed in any one of the many windows. Either the place was equipped with peculiarly opaque shutters or there were no lights inside the house to show.

“I hope the whole family isn’t out,” grumbled Lefty, as he ran up the veranda steps.

The doorway was a colonial one, with long, narrow, diamond-paned windows on each side. Before ringing, Locke paused to peer through one of these. It was not drawn shades or closed shutters which gave that air of gloominess to the place. There were no lights in the hall or anywhere else in the front of the house that he could see. There was a momentary pause before Lefty’s hand reached toward the bell. He would at least make absolutely certain that there was no one at home before leaving the place. There might be a servant somewhere about, or possibly――

He caught his breath sharply. The fingers feeling for the electric button stiffened. From the farther end of the hall a glare of light suddenly flashed up in a startling, wholly inexplicable manner which was bewildering. For a minute or two Lefty stood there, staring dazedly, before his lips curved in a grin of understanding.

The light was not in the hall at all. It shone through a door in the right-hand wall, full upon a high, massive mirror standing in the opposite corner. All in a flash Lefty took in the heavy, gilded frame and the low, old-fashioned marble-topped stand on which it rested. Then his eyes widened at what he saw reflected in the glass.

Only a very limited portion of the room was visible. A bit of green wall, with part of a wide black picture frame, showed distinctly, while in the foreground, bending over a table, the figure of a man in a check suit interested Lefty amazingly. There was something puzzlingly familiar about those square, muscular shoulders, the set of the head, the very sleekness of the crisp black hair. The fellow could not be Temple, who was a pronounced blond; yet the Blue Stocking pitcher was possessed with the certainty of having seen the man before.

A moment later the stranger, straightening up, turned toward the door, and Locke gasped as he recognized the face of Nelson Savage.