tinue to play
with the Bears to the end of the season, and that, in spite of him and
his dirty work we will win that pennant."

He arose and passed into the hall without a backward glance, ignoring
the sobs of the girl, who buried her face in her handkerchief and wept
gracefully, telling him between sobs that he was cruel. He took his
hat from the servant and strode rapidly down the steps, his mind a
turmoil of emotions.

How far did the plot to beat the Bears out of the pennant extend? How
many were in it? Gradually he commenced to draw connected thoughts
from the chaos of his brain. He realized that he was the storm center
of a plot and that he was dealing with dangerous enemies.

The girl he had left so abruptly continued her stifled, stagey sobs
until she heard the front door close. Then she sat up quickly, glanced
at her features in a wall mirror, brushed back a lock of ruffled hair
and rubbed her eyes lightly with her kerchief.

"How he has changed," she said to herself. "He is getting masterful,
and three months ago one pout was enough. I could almost love
him--even without old Jim Lawrence's money.

"At any rate," she said, looking at the handsome solitaire on her
finger, "I can keep the ring. He never mentioned it. I must go tell
Uncle Barney."

She ran lightly up the stairs to the den where Baldwin, smoking
impatiently, was waiting for her.

"Well?" he inquired. "Did you land him?"

"Don't speak so vulgarly, Uncle Barney," the girl replied. "No, I did
not. He has grown stubborn. He told me to tell you he intended to
keep on playing to the end of the season, and that they would win--I've
forgotten what he said they would win. Does it make much difference,
just these few more games?"

"Does it make any difference?" he stormed. "Any difference--why, you
fool, my whole political future may be ruined by that red-headed idiot.
Get out of here. I'm going to telephone."

The girl, weeping in earnest now, hurried from the room as Barney
Baldwin seized the telephone. A moment later he was saying:

"Hello, Ed. She fell down. He's stubborn and says he'll keep on
playing. You'd better see your man and break that story in the
newspaper. What? They got him? Where? Well, then, they've got the
wrong man. McCarthy left my house not five minutes ago."

CHAPTER XVII.

_The Fight in the Cafe_

Swanson left the hotel intending to pursue his volunteer detective work
only a few moment