Chuckling, Weegman lighted a fresh cigar, having tossed the remnant of the other away. The glow of the match fully betrayed an expression of self-satisfaction on his face. "He can't be," he said. "It was his doctor's idea to get him away where he could not be troubled by business of any nature. He may be in Tunis or Naples for all I know." "It's very remarkable," said Lefty slowly. "Oh, I don't know," purred the other man, locking his fingers over his little round stomach which seemed so incongruous for a person who was otherwise not overfat. "Really, he was in a bad way. Worrying over business reverses was killing him. His only salvation was to get away from it all." Locke sat in thought, watching the serene smoker through narrowed lids. There was something queer about the affair, something the southpaw did not understand. True, Collier had seemed to be a nervous, high-strung man, but when Lefty had last seen him he had perceived no indications of such a sudden and complete breakdown. It had been Collier's policy to keep a close and constant watch upon his baseball property, but now, at a time when such surveillance was particularly needed because of the harassing activities of the Federals, having turned authority over to a subordinate, not only had he taken himself beyond the range of easy communication, but apparently he had cut himself off entirely from the sources of inside information concerning baseball affairs. Furthermore, it seemed to Locke that the man who claimed to have been left in full control of that branch of Collier's business was the last person who should have been chosen. What lay behind it all the pitcher was curious to divine. Presently Weegman gave a castanet-like snap of his fingers. "By the way," he said sharply, "how about your arm?" "My arm?" said Lefty. "You mean--" "It's all right, isn't it? You know there was a rumor that you hurt it in the last game of the season. Some wise ginks even said you'd never pitch any more." "I've been doing some pitching for my team here in Fernandon." "Then, of course, the old wing's all right. You'll be in form again, the greatest left-hander in the business. How about it?" "I've never been egotistical enough to put that estimate on myself." "Well, that's what lots of the sharps call you. The arm's as good as ever?" "If you stop over to-morrow you'll have a chance to judge for yourself. We're scheduled to play a roving independent nine known as the Wind Jammers, and I hear they're some team, of the kind. I shall pitch part of the game, anyhow." "You've been pitching right along?"