The words came from Brennan’s lips like bullets. Suspicion, incredulity, anger, showed in his piercing eyes.
“I don’t know,” Lefty answered. “It looks as if some one wanted to get me away from the game.”
Brennan’s laugh was harsh and mirthless. “That’s likely, ain’t it? That’s a clever idea, that is! Where’s the telegram? Show it to me.”
With leaden heart, Locke remembered what he had done with it. “I haven’t—got it,” he stammered. “I wrote a message on the back—and gave it to the boy to send.”
“Is that so?” sneered the manager. “Did it get to the girl? Did it come while you were there?”
“N-o.”
“I thought so. It never went. Just so the other never came.”
“But it did come,” protested Lefty, though he had a feeling that further words were futile. “The boy handed it to me on the steps. I opened it, and wrote an answer right there. That’s the truth.”
“Is it?” retorted the manager incredulously. “Just you wait a minute and I’ll find out if it is or not.”