When Allan reached the finish he was unable for a moment to reach Professor Nast, for the half-milers were tearing down the home-stretch and the crowd was thick about the tape. Shouts of triumph, roars of applause, arose. Down the cinders, their straining forms throwing long wavering shadows before them, came Thatcher, Tolmann, and a Robinson runner, the first two almost side by side, the third man four or five yards behind. Then, in an instant more, the red string fluttered away and Thatcher raced over the line, a winner by a bare yard over his team-mate. “Eight more points!” cried Tommy, gleefully. “Who knows how the shot-put came out?” “We got first and third,” answered Hal, turning. “Hello, Tommy, is that you?” But Tommy was too busy casting up figures on his score to do more than nod. “Was Pete first?” he asked in a moment. “First! Gosh, he was first by almost a foot. Tiernan fouled on his last try, and----” “How about Monroe?” asked Pete, worming his way forward. “Hello, you old brick!” cried Hal, seizing his hand. “Why, Monroe did something like forty-four feet two, I think.” “_That’s_ all right,” said Pete. By this time Allan had found Professor Nast, and the latter was reading the message. It ran: “Allan was at my house New York evening December twenty-sixth except between eight and eight-thirty o’clock when he went errand for me Thirty-ninth street. Could not have gone to Brooklyn and did not if he says so. MARY G. MERRILL.” The professor handed back the sheet of paper and put his hand on Allan’s shoulder. “Good,” he said, with satisfaction. “Go in and win, Ware.” He pushed him toward where the long-distance men were assembling at the start. Allan waited for no more, but darted down the track. As he reached the group, his name was called and he answered as he slipped into the second line of runners. The next instant Stearns was pulling him aside, his eyes wide with eagerness. “Is it all right?” he whispered. “Did you get word?” “Yes, a minute ago. I’ve seen Nast.” Stearns gave him a hug that left him almost breathless. “Thank goodness!” he said, softly. “The meet’s tied at 54 points. The whole thing depends on this, and we’ve got to have first place, Ware, we’ve _got_ to! Watch that man Burns over there; the tall chap with the tow hair; he’s dangerous. And-- Say, Billy,” turning to the trainer, who had slipped across the track to them, “Ware’s in it, after all. I was telling him to----” “Get the lead at the start, or as soon as you can, and just simply hold it, if you have to break a leg,” said Billy, quietly. “How are you feeling?” “I--I don’t know,” answered Allan. “But--I guess I’m all right.” “Good. See that light-haired Robinson man over there at the pole? Well, play for him, Ware. And don’t let him head you for a minute. All right now.” “All ready, there?” called the starter, as he dropped back and glanced at the pistol in his hand. There was an instant of silence. Then,