At the sound of Locke's name the vagrant, who had been picking at the free lunch, turned to look the famous pitcher over with apparent curiosity and interest. "Lefty Locke," he mumbled huskily. "Lemme shake han's. Ruther shake han's with Lefty Locke than any man livin'." Locke pushed past him and placed his hand on the knob of the door. The fellow followed, insisting upon shaking hands, and, as Lefty opened the door, the vagrant staggered, lurched against the pitcher, and thrust him forward, the door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock. It is remarkable how seldom any one ever heeds premonitions. Even as he opened that door, Lefty was aware that ever since the telephone call had come to him some subtle intuition, thus far wholly disregarded, had been seeking to sound a warning. It had caused him to hesitate at last. Too late! The push delivered by the vagrant had pitched him forward into the snare, while the sound of the clicking spring lock notified him that his retreat was cut off. Through a dirty skylight above another door that probably opened upon a back alley some weak and sickly rays of daylight crept into the room. A single gas jet, suspended from the center of the cracked and smoky ceiling, gave a feeble, flickering light, filling the corners with fluttering shadows. The furniture in the room consisted of a table and a few chairs. At the table three men were sitting, drinking and smoking. Locke, recovering from the push he had received, stepped back against the closed door, and looked at them. "Hello!" said Mit Skullen. "Don't hurry away, Lefty. Folks that come in by that door sometimes go out by the other one." He was grinning viciously, triumphantly. The look upon his face was one of satisfaction and brutal anticipation, and amply proclaimed his purpose. Skullen's companions were tough characters, fit associates and abettors of such a man. That they were thugs of the lowest type, who would not hesitate at any act of violence, there could be no question. One looked like a prize fighter who had gone to the bad, his drink-inflamed face and bleary eyes advertising the cause of his downfall. The other had the appearance of a "coke" fiend, and the criminally bent habitual user of that drug has neither scruples nor fear of consequences. Locke regarded them in silence. His pulses were throbbing somewhat faster, yet he was cool and self-possessed, and his brain was keenly active. He knew precisely what he was up against. Slipping one hand behind him, he tried the knob of the door; but, as he had expected, the door held fast. Skullen continued to grin gloatingly, fancying that Locke's inactivity was evidence that he was practically paralyzed by amazement and fear. "Your friend Stillman was too busy to come," he said, "and so I kept the appointment for him. Maybe I'll do just as well. Anyhow, I'll do--for you!"