THE FACE IN THE MIRROR
Anxiety continued to be present in Lefty’s mind at frequent intervals
during the trip East. It made him begin even to doubt his own judgment,
and wonder if, after all, he had been wise in recommending a pitcher
of whom he really knew nothing personally. It was quite possible that
Gene Temple might turn out to be as undesirable as Savage, in spite of
the record he had made on the diamond the previous season. All this was
not exactly pleasant to contemplate, especially when Lefty recalled
the manner in which he had really persuaded Jack Kennedy, against the
latter’s judgment and inclination, to consent to the trial.
The fact that the Sharks’ manager was away and did not return until
the second day after Locke’s arrival in New York was not calculated
to relieve Lefty’s worry. When at length he did see Mr. Amos Jillson,
however, the latter’s demeanor was reassuring. After a momentary flash
of annoyance, he began to blackguard Temple strenuously. The fellow was
wild, undependable, even tricky, he said. He’d been thinking, in fact,
of sending him back to the bushes again. It was a sure thing that a man
of his caliber wouldn’t last a week in such an organization as the Blue
Stockings.
Knowing the subterfuges of the trade, Lefty listened to it all with
bland composure, quite unmoved. When the manager realized what he
was up against, he became curt, almost pettish, and went through the
formalities of transference with the greatest possible dispatch.
Temple resided with his parents in the neighboring village of Belle
View, so Lefty was briefly informed. He had never heard of this rising
suburb, and when he tried to reach it by means of a very circuitous
trolley line, he hoped fervently that he might never have occasion to
seek it again.
It had been dark for over an hour when he finally alighted from the
car, stiff, cold, and decidedly hungry. Had he entertained the least
conception of the time required to make the journey, it would certainly
have been put off until the next day. But once he had found Temple,
the interview was not likely to take long. Then he could get a bite
to eat and find some way of returning more directly to New York and
civilization.
The fairly well-lighted main street of Belle View was lined with
small shops in trim new buildings. Most of them were closed, but the
brilliant windows of one attracted Lefty’s eye. He had almost reached
the door, perceiving with approval that it was a clean, neat-looking
little restaurant, when the sight of a railroad track flanked by an
exceedingly up-to-date station of stucco made him give a deep sigh of
thankfulness.
Within five minutes he had learned from the ticket seller everything
he wished to know. New York, by underground, was exactly twenty-eight
minutes away. There was a train at seven-forty-three, and another at
nine-forty-five. It was now a few minutes before seven. Eight minutes’
brisk walking would bring him to the Temple house.
It did not take Lefty long to make up his mind. If he stopped to get
something to eat first, he would miss the earlier train, and be in for
a tiresome wait of more than two hours. By hunting up Temple at once,
dinner would be delayed not more than half or three-quarters of an hour
longer, and he could have it in quiet comfort at his own hotel. With a
word of thanks to the communicative agent, the pitcher hastily left the
station, and walked briskly up the street.
Three blocks straight ahead, the man had said, two blocks to the left,
then turn to the right, and take the house on the next right-hand
corner. Lefty found the blocks inordinately long, as country blocks are
likely to be, but there was no difficulty whatever in following the
agent’s directions to the letter.
“Some class to this town!” the ball player reflected as he turned the
last corner, on which stood an attractive concrete bungalow. “Next
right-hand corner, he said. That would be it at the end of the block.”
There were only three houses in the entire block, which was shorter
than the others he had traversed. The concrete bungalow occupied the
first corner; then came a low, rambling house set back from the street,
and gleaming hospitably with lights. A long stretch of vacant property
followed before the neat hedge and well-kept grounds of the Temple
place were reached.
This house also stood well back from the street, and Lefty was halfway
up the walk before he noticed how dark and gloomy it seemed. A clump
of evergreens shielded it from the street light. Not a solitary gleam
showed in any one of the many windows. Either the place was equipped
with peculiarly opaque shutters or there were no lights inside the
house to show.
“I hope the whole family isn’t out,” grumbled Lefty, as he ran up the
veranda steps.
The doorway was a colonial one, with long, narrow, diamond-paned
windows on each side. Before ringing, Locke paused to peer through
one of these. It was not drawn shades or closed shutters which gave
that air of gloominess to the place. There were no lights in the hall
or anywhere else in the front of the house that he could see. There
was a momentary pause before Lefty’s hand reached toward the bell. He
would at least make absolutely certain that there was no one at home
before leaving the place. There might be a servant somewhere about, or
possibly――
He caught his breath sharply. The fingers feeling for the electric
button stiffened. From the farther end of the hall a glare of light
suddenly flashed up in a startling, wholly inexplicable manner which
was bewildering. For a minute or two Lefty stood there, staring
dazedly, before his lips curved in a grin of understanding.
The light was not in the hall at all. It shone through a door in the
right-hand wall, full upon a high, massive mirror standing in the
opposite corner. All in a flash Lefty took in the heavy, gilded frame
and the low, old-fashioned marble-topped stand on which it rested. Then
his eyes widened at what he saw reflected in the glass.
Only a very limited portion of the room was visible. A bit of green
wall, with part of a wide black picture frame, showed distinctly, while
in the foreground, bending over a table, the figure of a man in a
check suit interested Lefty amazingly. There was something puzzlingly
familiar about those square, muscular shoulders, the set of the head,
the very sleekness of the crisp black hair. The fellow could not be
Temple, who was a pronounced blond; yet the Blue Stocking pitcher was
possessed with the certainty of having seen the man before.
A moment later the stranger, straightening up, turned toward the door,
and Locke gasped as he recognized the face of Nelson Savage.