Staggering to his feet, he went over to the washstand and plunged his face into a hurriedly drawn bowl of water. Nothing had ever felt so good before. He dashed it on his hair, regardless of the streams running over his shirtfront. Again and again he dropped his face back into the grateful, cooling contents of the bowl before he finally reached for a rough towel. He remembered everything now――the absence of Brennan, the adjournment to Hagin’s room, the cards, the smoke, the drinks, and――last of all――that horrible attack which had come upon him. What had brought it about? It couldn’t have been the beer. That was wretched stuff, to be sure, but a single glass of it would hardly produce such an effect. He had thrown his coat hastily to one side and was ripping the collar from his neck when suddenly he stopped abruptly. “Doped!” he exclaimed, aloud. It was an almost incredible supposition, but it explained everything perfectly. No single glass of ordinary beer could have the effect of that one upon a man in Lefty’s splendid physical condition, and there was the odd, repulsive flavor which he had set down to the poor quality of the brew. But who would do such a thing――and why? Locke’s first thought was of Bert Elgin, but the fellow had not even been in the room. Hagin had no motive――or, so far as he knew, any opportunity. Who else, then, could have been responsible? The answer did not come readily, for Lefty’s mind was working only by fits and starts as he flung his clothes right and left, threw a dressing gown over his shoulders, and darted down the hall to the shower which Brennan had caused to be put in for the benefit of his men. The tingling reaction of his blood under the icy spray meant much more to him than breakfast, for an intolerable lassitude seemed to grip his limbs, while the very thought of food was almost nauseating. Lingering under the shower as long as he dared, he dashed back to his room and began to drag on his baseball clothes. It was not until he was buckling his belt, however, that the significance of Buck Fargo’s remark when Lefty refused the second glass of beer came to him: “I reckon you _have_ had enough.” Why had he said that? Was it because he knew that the first glass was quite sufficient to do the business? There had been more to the big backstop’s tone, somehow, than just plain, casual agreement. “Rot!” snapped Locke, snatching up cap and glove and making for the door. “I’m loony! He hasn’t a single motive, and, besides, he’s not the sort of chap who’d do a dirty thing like that.” Nevertheless, the thought returned to torment him at odd moments during the hasty choking down of a little breakfast, followed by the jog out to the field――and afterward. It was the bitter disappointment and humiliation of that afterward, which Lefty never forgot.