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He thought of the mob’s reaction when Slag was helpless, and kept silent. It would be cruel to blast her one hope with nothing to offer in exchange.

“You think I’m wrong, but what else would it be? The ball couldn’t kill Tony by itself.” Then she was in tears. “I should have been there to stop it. He wouldn’t take a second—I begged him to let me—and I would have sensed any outside influence!”

Grant recognized the guilt feelings she was suffering from. He tried to give comfort, but suddenly she was a woman, proud and independent, and would not stay. Only at the door for one moment did she turn appealingly to him.

“Granny, you’re not going to play Slag!”

“Do you want me to? Should I obey the roar of the mob? And look!” He gestured at one of the papers, where a center-page box proclaimed, ‘Commissioner Rules Out Lane-Slag Match.’ “At thirty-seven they say I’m too old to play.”

“Don’t do it, Grant.” He felt her conflicting, torn emotions. “Yet, the funny thing is, I don’t think I could live if they allow Slag to go on and on.”