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Woods paced the dressing room, still confused. “I begin to see,” he said, “but what can I do with the two of them?”

“Stop worrying.” Grant was curt. “You can do nothing. The law will take Teagle, and without him Slag is just another bum.”

“He never knew,” marveled Bee. “Slag never knew how he won.”

“I am to blame.” Grant thought of the surging fear Teagle had directed in him at Slag’s hotel. “I should have known that telepsychical phenomena could be used as a weapon. The man is a freak. He couldn’t influence the ball, but communicated overpowering emotion—without even seeing his subjects—from behind his shield. The victims committed suicide, just as I nearly did before Bee....”

“What did you feel—a so-called called death wish?” asked Woods. “No matter. Not seeing Slag collapse, he overplayed his hand.”

“Slag’s being unconscious merely provided an anti-climax,” said Grant. “There was a more important factor added this time. And if you don’t mind, Woods, I have an apology to make in private to my one and only second.”