"Minette's on his way to the station," he said. "He'll try to get Judge Manasse to order the release, and he is carrying ten thousand dollars in securities as a bond." "Good," said Feehan rapidly. "Give me Gracemont 1328," he called quickly. "Going after the mayor?" inquired the night man casually. "He'll be sore as a boil. Orders are not to disturb him after midnight." "I've got to get him," said Feehan. "We can't fall down now after we've located McCarthy." There was no reply to the call for the mayor's telephone number, and while waiting, Feehan slipped to another telephone and called the hotel at which the ball players lived, asking for the Clancy apartments. Betty Tabor answered the summons. "We've found him," said Feehan. "He's alive and well." "Where is he?" asked the girl breathlessly. "He's in a cell at the North Ninetieth Street Police Station--about half a mile from your hotel. I want you to do something." "What is it?" she asked. "Hurry--I haven't undressed. Is there anything I can do?" "Yes," he said. "He's locked up and we're tearing the town to pieces trying to get him out of the station. It may be an hour--and he must catch that train. Can you arrange at your hotel to have a fast taxi to take him to the railroad station when he gets out, if there is a chance to catch the train?" "Wait--yes, yes," she said eagerly. "The manager here has a fast machine that he has been letting me use. I'll get it. The garage is only a few doors." "You'll take him yourself?" he said in surprise. "Yes," she said. "I must hurry." Again and again Feehan urged the telephone girl to try to get a reply to the call for the mayor. Beads of sweat stood upon his face, as he begged her to try again and summoned the manager to his assistance. He glanced at his watch. It was eight minutes to six o'clock. "I must get him," he told the telephone girl for the dozenth time. "Sorry--no one will answer," she said wearily. "I've tried--wait a minute, there's someone now." "Hello," said a hearty voice. "Your Honor"--Feehan's voice was pregnant with pleading--"this is Feehan, the baseball writer." "Hello, Feehan," came the quick response. "Why aren't you with the team, or did you just get in to honor me with this early call?" "Your Honor," pleaded Feehan, recalling suddenly that the mayor was an ardent baseball "fan." "I've been searching for McCarthy. He's in the North Ninetieth Street Station, held without being booked. I've been trying for hours to get him out so he can join the team." "What charge?" demanded the mayor sharply. "No charge. He is being held to keep him from playing. If he doesn't catch this morning's train the pennant is lost." "Here's where I make a pinch hit, then," said the mayor sharply. Feehan heard the receiver bang down. With a sigh of relief he hung up his receiver and grinned at Joe. "He's a baseball fan," was all the explanation he offered. An anxious wait ensued, then Cramer telephones: