At Flat Rock Junction he had to change to another road. There was an exasperating wait of three-quarters of an hour, during which he nearly wore a rut in the wooden platform. Another weary, interminable hour followed; but at last, shortly after one, he flung himself off the still-moving train at Billings, and dashed up the main street. The air was soft and warm and caressing. Trees and shrubs were bursting into leaf; flowers were everywhere. Here and there a bird caroled joyously, and the sound stabbed Lefty like the thrust of a knife. How could any living thing be joyful when her father lay dying? Rounding a corner, he scarcely dared look at the house where they had taken lodgings. Perhaps he had come too late. Perhaps it was all over. He reached the wooden gate and thrust it open. A rustle of skirts sounded on the vine-clad porch, the quick catching of a breath, then a cry of glad surprise: “Why, Lefty!” She started up from the rocking-chair, her face pink and her eyes sparkling. A little smile curved the corners of her tender mouth, bringing out the dimple which had always fascinated him. The man stared up in petrified astonishment. What did it mean? Was he dreaming, or had she gone daft? “Why, Lefty!” she exclaimed again. “This is splendid! How did you ever manage to get away?” He swallowed hard and, without knowing what he did, wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. “I came,” he gasped. “Your――father, Janet?” A little frown of perplexity came into her forehead. “Father?” she repeated. “Why, he’s all right. The springs are doing him no end of good. He’s taking his nap just now. Did you――” “You didn’t send me a telegram this morning, then?” Locke interrupted in a strange voice. “No, of course not. Why should I? I wrote you last night, but it was only―― Lefty! What is it? For goodness sake, tell me what has happened.” The skin over his jaws was hard as marble. The blood had rushed into his face, turning it a dull crimson under the brown, and bringing out a throbbing vein in his temple in bold relief. His lips were pressed tightly together, and the eyes fixed on the girl were not his eyes. They were wide open and almost black, full of cold, consuming wrath. They frightened Janet Harting, and made her step back involuntarily. “Lefty!” she cried again. “What is it? What makes you look so?” For an instant he did not answer. He had realized the bitter truth. The telegram was a forgery, sent for the sole and only purpose of getting him out of the way at the very time of all others during his baseball career that he should have been on the job. In a flash an illumination which comes too seldom to a man told him that Brennan’s reason for putting him on the slab to-day was in the nature of a final test of his ability. The other game had shown the manager nothing. This would have been the ultimate proof of his fitness to be retained as a member of the squad――and he would not be there to take advantage of the chance.