“It’s a bargain,” said Hutchinson, rising. “But it must be agreed that we simply hang him up so that no team in the league can use him. Leave it to me; I’ll settle the question regarding his identity, and get the sample of penmanship you want. He’s practically a dead one this minute.”
“If I land that new southpaw, I won’t need him, anyhow,” said the Bancroft manager. “But don’t lose no time, Hutch.”
“I won’t. I’m too eager to fix him to dally.”
It was late before Hutchinson retired that night, but still he lay awake a long time, and finally a method by which he could possibly get hold of some of Tom Locke’s handwriting flashed through his mind.
“Ah!” he breathed. “Now I can sleep. He attended church last Sunday; if he does so to-morrow, I’ll see if I can’t find a way to look over the contents of that writing desk in his room. It’s possible I may find something more than a mere specimen of his chirography.”
With this comforting thought, he soon drifted off into slumber as peaceful and unbroken as that of a healthy man who has no reason for a single troubled qualm.
CHAPTER XXX
THE LETTER IN THE DESK
Shortly after Sunday morning breakfast, Hutch had a private talk in his room with one of the two bell hops of the hotel, following which he complacently strolled down to the veranda, where, lounging in a comfortable chair, he presently saw Tom Locke come forth and depart on his way to church. When the pitcher had vanished, the man rose and returned to his room.
In less than fifteen minutes there came a light, nervous tap on the door, and, at Hutchinson’s invitation to enter, the bell boy, looking a trifle pale, glided in.