"In more ways than one," agreed Lefty. "I could tell you some other things, but you've got enough to worry about. We must arrange to keep in touch with each other. I presume I'll go back to Fernandon when I get through here." "Here's my New York address," said Parlmee, handing over his card, and rising. Five minutes after they separated old Jack Kennedy arrived, dusty and weary from his railroad journey. His shoulders were a trifle stooped, and he looked older by years, but his keen eyes lighted with a twinkle as he grasped Locke's hand. "I knew you'd beat me to it, Lefty," he said. "Wouldn't have called on you to make the jaunt, but I had to chin with you face to face. Let's talk first and feed our faces afterward." The veteran registered, and they took the elevator. Carrying Kennedy's traveling bag, a boy conducted them. A bar boy, bearing a tray that was decorated with drinks, was knocking on a door. Within the room somebody called for him to enter, and he did so as Locke was passing at old Jack's heels. By chance Lefty obtained a glimpse of the interior of that room before the door closed behind the boy. Two men, smoking cigars, were sitting at opposite sides of a table on which were empty glasses. They were Mit Skullen and Bailey Weegman. Left together in Kennedy's room, Locke told the old manager what he had seen, and immediately Kennedy's face was twisted into a wrathful pucker. "You're sure?" "Dead sure," replied Locke. "Well, it sorter confirms a little suspicion that's been creepin' inter my noddle. The Blue Stockings are up against somethin' more'n the Feds, and the Feds have chewed the team to pieces. Within the last three days they've nailed Temple, Dayly, and Hyland. There's only the remnants of a ball club left." Locke was aghast. "Gene Temple, too!" he cried. "The boy I found! I thought he would stick."