“Well, now, what do you know about that?” cried Lefty. “Sailed for Liverpool! The man’s crazy!”

“But he says he has had a cable message from Virginia,” said Janet. “She is in trouble in London. You were mistaken.”

“Was I?” queried the southpaw, as if not yet convinced.

“You must have been. All along I have thought it likely, but you persisted–”

“I saw her distinctly in that passing limousine, which was brightly lighted. True, I obtained only one passing glance at her, but it was enough to satisfy me.”

“You are so persistent, Phil! That’s your one fault; when you think you’re right, all the argument and proof in the world cannot change you.”

“In short, I’m set as a mule,” he admitted, smiling. “Well, there are worse faults. A mistake may prove costly or humiliating to an obstinate person who persists in his error, but, when he is right, such a person is pretty well qualified to win over all opposition. If I did not see Virginia Collier in that car, she has a perfect double in New York. I have great confidence in the reliability of my eyes.”

Janet, however, thoroughly convinced that her husband had been deceived by a resemblance, made no reply.

Lefty had looked for some word from Kennedy, but had found nothing from him in his bundle of mail. It was possible, of course, that old Jack had found it inconvenient to make the trip to New York just then; but, naturally, if he could not come on he would have let Locke know.

Lefty and Janet had not dined on the train, preferring to do so after reaching their destination. As they were passing the desk on their way to the dining room, Locke stopped short, staring at the back of a slender, well-dressed young man who was talking to one of the clerks. Then the southpaw sprang forward and clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“Jack Stillman!” he exclaimed impulsively.

The man turned quickly.

“If it isn’t Lefty Locke!” he cried, grabbing the pitcher’s hand. “And you’re the one man I’ve been palpitating to get hold of. You’re like the nimble flea. But I’ve got you now!”

“Murder!” said the southpaw. “My joy at spotting you caused me to forget. I should have passed you by, old man. For the moment I completely forgot your profession, and your knack of digging a column or so of sacred secrets out of any old ball player who knows anything he shouldn’t tell.”

Stillman was the baseball man of the Blade, a newspaper with a confirmed habit of putting over scoops. With the exception of Phil Chatterton, who was more of a special writer than reporter, Stillman was almost universally acknowledged to be the best informed pen pusher who made a specialty of dealing with the national game. He possessed an almost uncanny intuition, and was credited with the faculty of getting wise in advance to most of the big happenings in the baseball world.

“So you would have ducked me, would you?” said the reporter reprovingly. “Well, I didn’t think that of you!”

“I believe I should, if I’d stopped to figure out the proper play in advance,” confessed Lefty. “I don’t care to do much talking for the papers–at present.”

“Hang you for an ungrateful reprobate!” exclaimed Stillman, with a touch of earnestness, although he continued to laugh. “Why, I made you, son! At least, I’m going to claim the credit. When you first emerged from the tangled undergrowth I picked you for a winner and persistently boosted you. I gave you fifty thousand dollars’ worth of free advertising.”

“And made my path the harder to climb by getting the fans keyed up to look for a full-fledged wonder. After all that puffing, if I’d fallen down in my first game, Rube Marquard’s year or two of sojourning on the bench would have looked like a brief breathing spell compared to what would have probably happened to me.”

“But you didn’t fall down. I told them you wouldn’t, and you didn’t. Let the other fellows tout the failures; I pick the winners.”

“Modest as ever, I see,” said Locke. “Here’s Mrs. Hazelton waiting. We’re just going to have a late dinner. Won’t you join us?”

Janet knew Stillman well, and she shook hands with him. “Mrs. Hazelton!” he said, smiling. “By Jove! I looked round to see who you meant when you said that, Lefty. Somehow I’ve never yet quite got used to the fact that your honest-and-truly name isn’t Locke. I’ll gladly join you at dinner, but a cup of coffee is all I care for, as I dined a little while ago. Shan’t want anything more before two or three o’clock in the morning, when I’m likely to stray into John’s, where the night owls gather.”

When they had seated themselves at a table in the almost deserted dining room, Lefty warned Janet.

“Be careful what you say before him, my dear,” he said. “He’s looking for copy every minute that he’s awake, and nobody knows when he sleeps.”

Stillman became serious. “Locke,” he said, “I’ve never yet betrayed a confidence. Oh, yes, I’m a reporter! But, all the same, I have a method of getting my copy in a decent fashion. My friends don’t have to be afraid of me, and close up like clams; you should know that.”

“I do,” declared the southpaw promptly. “I didn’t think you were going to take me quite so seriously. You have been a square friend to me, Jack.”

“Then don’t be afraid to talk. I’ll publish only what you’re willing I should. You can tell me what that is. And if you’ve seen the Blade right along you must be aware that it’s the one paper that hasn’t taken a little poke at you since you were tagged to manage the Blue Stockings. Nevertheless, here to your face I’m going to say that I’m afraid you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”

Lefty shrugged his shoulders. “As to that, time will tell. For once your judgment may be at fault.”“I don’t mean that you couldn’t manage the team successfully if you were given a half-decent show,” the reporter hastened to make clear. “I think you could. But I’m afraid you’re going to find yourself in a mess that no man living could crawl out of with credit to himself.”

The southpaw gave the waiter the order. Then he turned to Stillman.

“I thought I might hear something new from you, Jack,” he said, “but you’re singing the same old song. To be frank with you, it’s getting a bit tiresome. If I were dull enough not to know I’d been picked for a fall guy, I could have obtained an inkling of it from the newspapers. It’s plain every baseball scribe knows the fact that there’s a put-up job, although none of them has had the nerve to come out flat and say so.”

“They’ve said all they really dared to–without absolute proof of a conspiracy. If you know so much, take my advice, hand me the proof, and give me permission to publish it. But it must be real proof.”

“I can’t do it yet. Perhaps, when the time comes, I’ll pass you what you’re asking for. Just now, considering your statement that you never double cross a friend, I’m going to talk freely and tell you how much I know.”

Sipping his coffee, Stillman listened to Locke’s story. That there was sufficient interest in it the attention of the reporter attested. Janet watched the newspaper man closely, and once or twice she caught the flicker of an incredulous smile that passed over his face, giving her the impression that Stillman had a notion that there were holes in Lefty’s narrative.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” asked the reporter, when dinner was over, and the dessert had been placed on the table.

Having received Janet’s permission, Stillman lit a cigarette, and for a few moments said nothing, being apparently engrossed with his thoughts.

Presently he said: “I wonder.”

“Wonder what?” Lefty wanted to know. “What I’ve told you is the straight fact. Weegman’s the crook. Kennedy knew it. I knew it when I took the position of manager. Garrity’s behind Weegman. What ails Collier, and why he was crazy enough to run away and bury himself while his team was wrecked, is the unexplained part of the mystery. But if we can block Weegman we may be able to put the whole game on the fritz.”

“I wonder,” repeated Stillman, letting the smoke curl from his mouth.

Locke felt a touch of irritation. “What are you wondering over? I’ve talked; now I’m ready to listen.”

The reporter gave Locke a steady look. “Evidently the possibility hasn’t occurred to you that you may not even suspect the real crook who is at the bottom of the affair.”

“Weegman conceived it,” replied Lefty. “He knew Garrity’s reputation. He was sure Garrity would jump at the chance to help, and to grab a fat thing at the same time, by stepping in and gobbling the Stockings when the moment came. Of course, Weegman will get his, for without his undermining work in our camp the thing couldn’t be pulled off. And Weegman’s looking to cop the big chief’s daughter when he gets the chief pinched just where he wants him.”

“Wheels within wheels,” said Stillman, “and Weegman only one of the smallest of them. He’s one of those egotistical scoundrels who can easily be flattered and fooled into doing scurvy work for a keener mind.”

“You mean Garrity?”

“I wasn’t thinking of him when I spoke.”

“Then who–”

“I had a man named Parlmee in mind,” stated the reporter.