Having read to this point, Kennedy drew a deep breath of relief. A moment later, however, he uttered a smothered exclamation of dismay, for the next paragraph stated that one of the players, Lefty Locke, had not been in the car and was missing since the catastrophe. He was not among those killed or injured, and all efforts to find him had proved fruitless. “Well, I’ll be――jiggered!” muttered Kennedy. “Wasn’t in the car! Hasn’t been found! Well, what’s become of the boy? He was under suspension. I’m afraid――” He did not state what he was afraid of, but the serious, troubled face which he wore, and his eagerness for further details concerning the disaster, indicated that anxiety over the fate of Lefty remained in his mind. One evening, two days later, shortly after the arrival of the seven o’clock train in Deering, Kennedy sought Landlord McLaughlin in the Central House to consult with him regarding some matter concerning the team. As old Jack entered the office he saw a man at the desk in the act of registering. There was something strangely familiar about this man’s back, and when the new arrival made inquiries for a room with bath the sound of his voice caused the manager of the Deers to step forward quickly to get a look at his face. As the clerk was fishing a big brass key from a pigeonhole the guest leaned his left elbow on the edge of the desk and swung part way round, thus bringing himself face to face with Kennedy. The latter gasped, and let out something like a shout. “Holy smoke!” he cried delightedly. “As I live, it’s Lefty Locke! How are you, son?” To Kennedy’s astonishment, no light of recognition rose into the man’s eyes, and he made no move to shake the extended hand. Instead, he surveyed the old manager in a puzzled, doubting way, and slowly shook his head. “I think you’ve made a mistake, pal,” he said. “My name is Stranger――Robert Stranger.” His mouth open, Kennedy slowly permitted his hand to drop at his side. For something like half a minute he stared steadily at the person who had denied his acquaintance. Suddenly he laughed. “What’s the joke, Lefty?” he asked. “Put me wise.” “Really, there’s no joke,” was the grave assertion. “You’ve got me wrong.” “What’s that?” rasped old Jack. “Do you mean to say you don’t recognize John Kennedy, your old manager?” Something like an annoyed frown crept into the somber, handsome face of the younger man. “I tell you,” he said a trifle warmly, “you’ve got me wrong. To my knowledge I never heard of you in all my life. You call me Locke, but my name is Stranger. That’s my monacker――Robert Stranger, Bob for short.” Kennedy pinched himself. “I’m awake,” he muttered. “There can’t be two men so much alike in the whole world. Besides, he wrote his name on the register with his left hand.”