“I never thought of that,” Lefty apologized. “I was so shaken up and worried and rushed that I couldn’t seem to think of anything but making that train.”
The spark of hope had been fanned into a little blaze. Brennan was certainly relenting. Everything about him pointed to that. He stared at the cub pitcher from under his bushy eyebrows for a moment or two as if vainly searching for something more to find fault with.
“You seem to have got back mighty sudden,” he said presently, in a tart voice. “Must have taken the first train. Didn’t your friend’s father die?”
It had come, the question which Lefty had been dreading from the beginning and trying to get away from! For an instant he was tempted—desperately tempted. The manager was plainly influenced in his favor. If he lied and told some plausible story of Mr. Harting’s sudden recovery, all would be well, and the matter would probably be dropped. If he told the truth and admitted that no message had ever been sent—
In that second of hesitation, many things flashed through his mind. He was already morally certain that he had Bert Elgin to thank for the trick. He told himself that a lie which would result in foiling the plotter would be no lie at all. The very words of a glib falsehood were on his lips when suddenly he brought his teeth together and threw back his head. He would tell the truth at any cost.
“He was never sick at all,” he said swiftly, his face rather pale.
Brennan stared. “Never sick!” he repeated sharply. “Then what in time did she send the telegram for, I’d like to know?”
Lefty thrust both hands behind his back, gripping the fingers tightly together. His eyes met Brennan’s squarely.
“She didn’t. She knew nothing about it. It was sent by some one else.”
“What for?”