Chapter VI: Suspicious Denials

Lefty’s first thought was that he had been deceived by a superficial resemblance, coupled with the tricks played by a faulty mirror. But swiftly that explanation vanished. For a full minute the man stood quite still against the table, staring thoughtfully out into the darkened hall. The lights from above shone full on his face, bringing out even in the reflection every little detail of form and coloring. Hair, eyes, features――all were identical. It was Jack Kennedy’s newest recruit without the possibility of a doubt. As he realized this Locke’s eyes narrowed, and the muscles of his jaw hardened.

It was puzzling enough, after having left Savage on Jack’s farm, a thousand miles away, to come upon him three days later in this New Jersey suburb; but to find him on apparently friendly terms with Gene Temple was even more surprising, and a great deal more unpleasant. He had not supposed the two to be even casually acquainted. They came from opposite extremes of the continent, and had never, so far as Locke was aware, even played in the same game.

Recovering quickly from his surprise, Lefty followed the actions of the bush pitcher with the closest attention. There was no questioning the air of being at home which was betrayed in his every action. After that momentary pause under the light, he squared his shoulders decisively, and walked out into the hall, returning in a moment with something in his hand. Just what it was Lefty could not see, for the fellow stepped out of range at once. During the next five minutes or so the glass reflected only tantalizing glimpses of him moving about the room.

What he was doing the watcher could not determine, nor was he inordinately curious. His mind was taken up to a much greater extent in wondering whether Gene Temple was also in the house. So far, nothing had been seen of the Seaboard pitcher, yet it was hard to believe that Savage was here alone.

Suddenly Locke’s hand reached for the bell, but he paused, his finger tips just touching the button. His impulse had been to ring and see what would happen, but he repressed it. If Temple was there he would doubtless come to the door, and Lefty was not so sure he cared about talking with the fellow just now. He wanted time to digest his discovery, to readjust his mind to the realization that Temple was apparently on intimate terms with an individual for whom Lefty hadn’t the slightest use. It might make a radical difference in his actions. One recruit of Savage’s caliber was quite enough in the training camp, Locke reflected. Under the circumstances, he might decide that he had no use for Gene Temple, after all.

So, instead of ringing, Lefty went quietly down the steps and along the flagged walk to the street. Instinctively he retraced his steps to Main Street, moved, perhaps, by a subconscious picture of the clean little restaurant on the corner. But all the while his mind was going over and over the problem which had so suddenly confronted him, and he was trying his best to decide what he ought to do. It seemed unjust to condemn a man unheard, yet if Temple was not a friend of Savage how else was it possible to account for what Locke had just seen?

Brief as had been their acquaintance, Lefty’s dislike and disapproval of the Western busher was acute, and by the time he reached the main street he had decided to have nothing to do with any of the fellow’s friends. He had also decided that the sooner everything was straightened out and settled the better. He wished now he had obeyed that first impulse to rouse Temple at the house.

“There’ll be no trotting back to New York until I’ve located the fellow and straightened things out,” the pitcher said as he opened the restaurant door and stepped into the warm, brightly lighted interior.

As he closed the door and turned to one of the bare-topped, shiny tables that ran along one side of the room, he heard an exclamation of surprise from a tall young man in a heavy ulster who was just turning away from the cigar stand:

“Jumping Jemimah! Why, it’s Lefty Locke!”

Since the triumphant finish of the past season, Lefty had received about as much adulation as any professional in the Big League. Wherever he went enthusiastic fans treated him with that mixture of deference and friendliness which is so characteristic of fans the country over. Lefty made no pretense of being bored. He looked upon it all as part of the game, and felt that some slight occasional inconvenience was little enough to pay for the fame which had come to him. It amused him to have people recognize him in street cars and public places. Even the inevitable string of small boys, with awe-struck faces, camping on his trail, did not annoy him. In the field he rather liked to hear the bleacherites roar out that “Oh, you Lefty!” in tones of fond proprietorship. He felt that the greater part of it was genuine; that people really did like him, and were proud of him. And to treat such honest admiration with indifference or disdain would be churlish, ill bred, impossible.

As he turned now, with a faint, friendly smile for the man who had spoken so impulsively, he saw a tall, well-built fellow, with laughing gray eyes set in a face which was almost too good looking. It was a face which, once seen, was not likely to be forgotten, and, after that first brief flash of surprise, Lefty’s smile deepened to one of pleased satisfaction.

“How are you, Temple?” he said quietly, putting out his hand.

“Fine as silk!” was the reply before an expression of dazed bewilderment leaped into the gray eyes. “But how the deuce―― Say, you’re Lefty Locke, of the Blue Stockings, aren’t you?”

“Sure thing!”

“But I don’t understand how you know my name. I’m sure I never met you before, though I’ve seen you in the box, of course.”

His voice was low and pleasant; his gaze frank, direct, and steady. As the Big League pitcher slipped out of his coat and hung it up, he found himself warming already to the stranger.

“It doesn’t seem to occur to you that I might also have seen _you_ pitch,” he suggested.

Temple laughed. “You might, but that’s different; I’m next door to the bushes.”

Locke shrugged his shoulders, and moved toward one of the tables. The room was almost empty, a man and woman at the rear being the only other patrons. A single waitress hovered at a little distance, waiting for the latest patron to settle himself.

“I happened to see you pitch a game early last spring,” Lefty explained, “and I don’t often forget a face.”

He paused, one hand on the back of a chair, his eyes fixed intently on Temple’s. He had suddenly made up his mind to settle the whole affair without delay.

“I’m going to ask you a question which may strike you as rather peculiar,” he resumed abruptly. “How long have you known Nelson Savage?”

The younger pitcher suddenly stubbed his toe against a rubber mat, and dropped the lighted cigar he was carrying. He bent instinctively to pick it up; then, changing his mind, set his heel on the glowing end, and took a fresh one from his pocket.

“Nelson Savage?” he repeated blankly. “I’m afraid I don’t get you, quite. Who is he?”

Locke’s face hardened perceptibly. He had not expected such a barefaced denial. He hesitated an instant, still holding Temple’s gaze in thrall. It seemed remarkable that the gray eyes never wavered or shifted.

“It’s rather odd that you should ask that,” he remarked coldly, “when he’s making himself at home at this very moment in your house.”

Temple’s jaw sagged; the match he had just struck slipped unheeded through his fingers.

“You’re――kidding me――aren’t you?” he stammered.

Lefty made a negative motion of his head, and, pulling out the chair, sat down. “I have just come from there,” he returned. “I saw him.”

Still with that dazed expression on his face, Temple came close to the table, and, bending over, gripped the edge of it with both hands. The action crumpled his cigar into fragments, but apparently he was unconscious of it. He was staring at the older man with a look of bewilderment which could scarcely have been counterfeited. When finally he broke the silence his words came in jerks.

“You say――there’s a man――named Savage in my house――now――this minute?” he gasped. “You saw him――there?”

A gleam of fresh interest flashed into Lefty’s eyes; the hard line of his compressed lips softened. Either this man was genuinely surprised and disturbed or else he was an amazing actor.

“I certainly did,” the Blue Stocking pitcher returned, in a less chilly tone; “not more than fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

Temple straightened abruptly, with a decisive squaring of his shoulders. He began to button his ulster.

“Then he’s there for no good purpose,” he said. “I know of no one who has any business there. My people are away――visiting in Boston. The house is closed――unoccupied, except when I go there to sleep. Whoever this man Savage is, it looks to me as if he’d broken in to steal, and if he has――good night!”

He swung abruptly away from the table, and strode toward the door. Lefty stared after him for a second; then, springing up, he grabbed coat and hat, and followed.