"Going after the mayor?" inquired the night man casually. "He'll be sore as a boil. Orders are not to disturb him after midnight."
"I've got to get him," said Feehan. "We can't fall down now after we've located McCarthy."
There was no reply to the call for the mayor's telephone number, and while waiting, Feehan slipped to another telephone and called the hotel at which the ball players lived, asking for the Clancy apartments. Betty Tabor answered the summons.
"We've found him," said Feehan. "He's alive and well."
"Where is he?" asked the girl breathlessly.
"He's in a cell at the North Ninetieth Street Police Station—about half a mile from your hotel. I want you to do something."
"What is it?" she asked. "Hurry—I haven't undressed. Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes," he said. "He's locked up and we're tearing the town to pieces trying to get him out of the station. It may be an hour—and he must catch that train. Can you arrange at your hotel to have a fast taxi to take him to the railroad station when he gets out, if there is a chance to catch the train?"
"Wait—yes, yes," she said eagerly. "The manager here has a fast machine that he has been letting me use. I'll get it. The garage is only a few doors."
"You'll take him yourself?" he said in surprise.