“It seems to me, Mr. President, that the first duty of the man who makes this charge is to establish that I am the party referred to in the document.” “Huh!” grunted Riley, without regard for the regular order of procedure. “’Twon’t do ye no good to deny it. We’ve got the proof.” “Pardon me, Riley,” said Graham reprovingly; “I am questioning the young man. Do you deny, sir, that you are Paul Hazelton, of Princeton?” “Yes, sir,” was the prompt, clear answer, “I deny it.” Henry Cope nearly fell off his chair. In great agitation, he reached out, grasped the speaker’s coat, tugged at it, and whispered: “Boy, boy, be keerful! It’s too late for that to do any good.” The dismay of the grocer was apparent to all, and provoked some smiles; but the unruffled young man simply turned and spoke to him in a low, calm tone: “Leave this to me, Mr. Cope, please.” “In that case,” said the president, maintaining an impartial manner, “it will be necessary for Manager Riley to produce satisfactory evidence that you _are_ Paul Hazelton. Mr. Riley, your evidence.” “I’ve got it,” asserted Mike positively. “Mr. King can show somethin’ that’ll settle the matter in short order.” CHAPTER XLV THE FORGERY Benton King, called upon, rose and expressed regret that circumstances had involved him in the unfortunate affair. He spoke hurriedly, without looking at Locke, although he was well aware that Tom’s eyes were fixed upon him all the while. At the first sight of Kingsbridge’s left-handed pitcher, he stated, he had been struck by the thought that he had seen the man somewhere before, and, after racking his brain, he suddenly recalled that it was at a game played the previous year, between Princeton and Harvard, when Locke, to use the name he had given in Kingsbridge, had sat in uniform upon the Princeton bench. He went on to explain, with an effort to hide any personal animosity in the matter, that the man’s denial that he was Hazelton had led him to communicate with a friend in New York, requesting this friend to go to Princeton for the purpose of obtaining the photograph of the college pitcher. This the friend had done, getting the picture from the photographer who was generally patronized by the undergraduates. Concluding, King produced the photograph and the letter that had accompanied it in the same mail, and placed them in evidence. Locke listened and watched, without making a movement, a scornful smile on his lips. He heard the letter read by King, and saw it turned over, with the picture, to Anson Graham. The president glanced at the letter, then seemed to make a comparison of the photographed features and those of the young man standing so enigmatically cool beside the chair of Henry Cope. “Sir,” said Graham, extending the picture, “do you deny that this is your likeness?” Locke barely glanced at it. “It is my picture,” he acknowledged.