“Don’t go to worrying, honey,” he said reassuringly. “Clara’s story sounds a little queer, but there’s not a thing in the world to worry about. Let’s get on back to the hotel where we can finish our little powwow in quiet.”
On the way home the chums tried to keep the conversation on a lighter plane, but they were, nevertheless, deeply troubled.
Clara seemed strangely sure that the man she had seen on the station platform at Liberty had been none other than the Giants’ third baseman. Granted that she was not mistaken in this, then who was his companion?
Lemblow, perhaps. The imaginations of Joe and Jim traveled even further, connecting McCarney’s companion with the strange man who had hurried from the half-completed building the day the lumber had fallen from the scaffold.
When they reached the hotel, the same at which Joe and Jim had been staying and where the girls were to stay as long as they were in the city, Joe was all for making plans as to how they should spend their first evening together.
But it did not take them long to discover that the girls were not yet in a party mood. They made it quite clear that they wanted this “mystery business” cleared up first. Clara, especially, seemed fidgety and nervous, and she had hardly taken off her wraps before she turned to Joe.
“Joe, dear,” she said, “Jim says you have pictures of every ball player and near ball player in the world.”
“Not quite,” said Joe modestly. “But, at that, I’ve got quite a scrap book. What do you want of my rogues’ gallery?”
He knew quite well what she wanted of it, but he had made up his mind, for the sake of the girls, to treat the whole matter as lightly as possible.