"Hello," he said to the operator. "Can you tell me where that call for Mr. Williams came from just now? He has forgotten which hotel he is to meet his friend at. Thank you," he said after a moment's wait.
"Hurry. He's going to the Metropolis Hotel," he ordered. "We must catch up with him."
They dressed with the speed of men accustomed to changing clothing four or five times a day, and before Williams had been five minutes on his way they were racing for the elevator. Swanson, hastily leaping into a waiting taxicab, ordered the driver to make all possible speed to the corner nearest the Metropolis Hotel.
"What is up?" asked McCarthy, as they settled back in the cushions of the taxi as it lurched over the pavement.
"There is something funny going on in this ball club," said Swanson. "And I am going to find out what it is. Whatever it is, Williams is mixed up in it. I want to find out why he is meeting Edwards to-night and what is up."
"What do you think?" asked McCarthy.
"I haven't got it figured out," said Swanson, scratching his head. "There has been something wrong for two weeks. Ever since you joined the club Williams hasn't been natural. He acts mysterious off the field and worse than that on it. He has only won one of his last three games, and ought to have lost them all the way he pitched."
The taxi jerked to a stop at the corner opposite the hotel, and Swanson, after reconnoitering carefully, led the way across the street and into the café.
"I used to know this place like a book when I was hitting the booze," he said. "They'll be in here—or I don't know Williams. Let's take the corner booth so we can see who comes in and goes out."
Five minutes later two men came through the swinging doors from the hotel lobby. Swanson could see them, but McCarthy was out of the range of vision. Swanson drew back deeper into the booth.