“That’s strange,” said Cope, plainly a trifle disturbed. “He lef’ Kingsbridge on the early train this mornin’, sayin’ that he’d meet me here to-night. I thought sure I’d find him waitin’.” “Left town, hey?” cried Riley. “Left town this mornin’! Well, I swear! So help me, he’s skipped!” He was not the only one through whose head had passed the same thought, but Henry Cope immediately raised an agitated protest against such an idea, asserting his belief that the absent man would put in an appearance. They were induced to wait a while, although it was likely that Cope was the only one who was not satisfied that time was being wasted. In his heart, even the grocer began to doubt. As the minutes ticked away, Cope looked anxious, Riley smoked and growled, Hutchinson remained cool, and Benton King fidgeted. Finally Anson Graham said: “Gentlemen, it is now ten minutes past the time set for this meeting to be called, and I think we had better proceed without further delay; for it seems that the party accused does not intend to appear in his own defense. If you will please come to order, the secretary will read the protest of Manager Riley which led to――” Breathless and anxious, Henry Cope had been listening to the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs, and now, as the door was thrust open and the tardy one stepped in, he gave an exclamation of great relief and satisfaction. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said Tom Locke, his face flushed. “I believe I am somewhat late, but it was the fault of my watch, which I have discovered is slow. I hope I have not kept you waiting long.” He bowed to everybody in a general, pleasant way, smiling on Cope, who had sprung forward to grip his hand. “I knowed you’d come,” said the grocer. “I told them you’d be here. Now, gents, you can go ahead.” A hard gleam had appeared in the eyes of Tom Locke as he noted the presence of Benton King, but, after the first swift glance, he ignored the lumberman’s son. The meeting was called to order in the regular manner, and Kilgore read the written protest of Manager Riley, which, as it appeared, had privately been formally worded by the lawyer himself. The document curtly charged that “the baseball player passing under the name of Tom Locke and appearing as a member of the Kingsbridge team of the Northern League” was in reality Paul Hazelton, of Princeton, and made the claim that, because of “unterminated negotiations,” Riley held an indisputable right to the man’s services. Locke’s face wore a half-mocking smile as he listened to the reading. “You have heard the charge, sir,” said Anson Graham, turning to Tom. “What answer have you to make?” This was the moment Cope had dreaded, but his pitcher had given assurance that he would be ready to meet every charge, and he waited now, his lips parted, for the young man to answer. His surprise, however, amounted to something bordering on consternation when Locke quietly replied: