The southpaw answered: "I'm going to put Jack Kennedy wise. I'm going to write him a letter to-night, and I shall send him a telegram as soon as the office opens in the morning. It's up to him to get in communication with Collier if there's any way of doing it. You have not received a letter from Virginia lately?" Virginia Collier, the charming daughter of the owner of the Blue Stockings, was Janet's closest friend. "No, I have not heard from her in over three weeks, and I don't understand it," returned his wife. "She seems to have stepped off the map, along with her father. The whole business is mysterious. Why don't you write her at once, explaining what is going on, and send the letter to her last address?" "I will." "It may not reach her, but there's no harm in trying. Meanwhile, I'll get busy on mine to Kennedy. There doesn't seem to be much chance to spike Weegman's guns, but it's worth trying." Locke had the knack of writing a succinct letter; the one he wrote old Jack was concise, yet it was clear and complete. Within two minutes after opening it, doubtless Kennedy would know as much about the situation as did Lefty himself. Yet it was probable that, like the pitcher, the manager would be mystified by the surprising and seemingly sinister maneuvers of Bailey Weegman. Following Lefty's advice, Janet wrote to Virginia Collier. Locke rose early the following morning and posted the letters for the first outward mail. He sent a telegram also. Returning past the Magnolia Hotel, to his surprise he perceived Collier's private secretary sitting on the veranda, smoking. Weegman beamed and chuckled. "Morning," he cried, waving his cigar between two fingers. "The early bird, eh? Been firing off a little correspondence, I presume. Our communications will reach Kennedy in the same mail; and I wired him, too. Quite a little jolt for the old man, but it can't be helped. Of course, he'll have the sense to bow gracefully to the inevitable, and that will clear the air. Afterward, perhaps, you may change your mind regarding my offer." "Perhaps so," returned Lefty pleasantly. "But if I do, I shall be a fit subject for a padded cell." The agreeable look was wiped from Weegman's face as Locke passed on. Some time after breakfast Lefty returned to the Magnolia to learn if Cap'n Wiley and his ball players had arrived. Approaching, he perceived a queer assortment of strangers lounging on the veranda, and from their appearance he judged that they were members of the team. Many of them looked like old stagers, veterans who had seen better days; some were youthful and raw and inclined to be cock-a-hoop. There was a German, an Italian, an Irishman, and a Swede. One was lanky as a starved greyhound, and apparently somewhere near six feet and six inches tall from his heels to his hair roots. Another was short and fat, and looked as if he had been driven together by some one who had hit him over the head with a board.