Lefty had defied Weegman. Henceforth it was to be open war, and he was glad of it. What the rascal would attempt to do he did not know, and cared less. It did not seem likely that he could do much, if anything, that he had not already made preparations to do. Of course, he might call Collier into the affair, and that, should it bring the owner of the Blue Stockings back to his own country, was something earnestly to be desired. Could he but get Collier in private for twenty minutes, Locke felt sure he could make him realize that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and that his trusted private secretary had sought to sell him out into the hands of a rival owner. The telephone rang, and, thinking Stillman was calling at last, he hastened to answer. It was not the reporter's voice that he heard, but he was informed that some one was speaking from the office of the _Blade_, and that, after making a fruitless effort to get Locke on the wire, Stillman had found it necessary to hustle away to keep an important appointment. "But where can I find him?" asked the disappointed pitcher. "How can I get hold of him?" "He wants to talk to you as much as you do to him," was the answer. "Said it was absolutely necessary. That's why he had me call you. Says he has something to tell you, personally and privately. He'll try to be at Mike's saloon, Thompson Street, near Broome, at three o'clock. If you get there first, wait for him. And don't fail to come, for he'll have important information. Got that straight?" "Yes, but--" "All right. I've done my duty. Good-by." There was a click, and the wire was silent. Lefty looked at his watch as he left the phone. It was twenty-two minutes to three. "Just about time enough to make it comfortably," he decided. "Stillman must be on the track of something." The subway being convenient, he chose it instead of a taxi, getting off at Spring Street. Five minutes ahead of time, he found Mike's saloon, a somewhat disreputable-looking place when viewed from the exterior. The neighborhood, likewise, seemed sinister. However, a reporter's business, thought Locke, carried him into all sorts of places. Within the saloon a single patron, who looked like a vagrant, was picking at the crumbs of a sickly free lunch in a dark corner. A husky-looking, red-headed bartender was removing an emptied beer schooner and mopping up the counter. He surveyed the southpaw from head to foot with apparent interest. "I'm looking for a man named Stillman who made an appointment to meet me here at three," explained Lefty. "I was to wait for him if I got here first." "Jack's here," stated the man behind the bar, in a manner that bespoke considerable familiarity with the reporter. "Came in three or four minutes ago. Reckon you're Lefty Locke?" "That's right." "He told me you might come round. He's in the back room. Walk right in." The speaker jerked a heavy thumb toward a closed door at the far end of the bar.