“Better take a nap now. After you wake up you can type out your detailed report for Washington,” advised Merritt Hughes. Bob didn’t especially relish the idea of sleeping when he felt he should be on his way to Atalissa, but he was thoroughly relaxed and a great fatigue had crept over him. So it was with real gratitude that he crept in between crisp sheets. He was asleep in less than a minute. Some time later his uncle looked in and pulled down the shades at the windows. Later he went out for a time, and when he returned Bob was still in a deep sleep. It was late afternoon before Bob finally roused from his slumber, but he felt much like his former self. Of course there were a few bruises and several strained muscles, but he could walk without creaking in every joint. Bob dressed and went into the adjoining room which his uncle occupied. The federal agent had gone out several hours before, but his portable typewriter was on a low table and Bob sat down and started to work on his report which was to be air mailed to Washington. The report was lengthy for Bob went into great detail and the afternoon faded into early night. He snapped on a desk light and continued with his work. When he was through he straightened up and stretched his arms for he had been hunched over the typewriter for more than an hour and a half. Bob leaned back in his chair and read the report with care, correcting an occasional error which he had made in the manuscript. That done, he addressed a large envelope, and went down to the desk in the lobby where he secured air mail stamps and learned that by prompt mailing the letter would be delivered in Washington the next morning. Bob was hungry, but he waited for a time for his uncle. Now that he was thoroughly rested, he was anxious to make plans for the trip to Atalissa. After waiting in the lobby for half an hour, Bob went into the dining room which opened to the right, leaving word where he could be found. A supper with a fresh fish steak as the main course appeased his hunger and he ate leisurely. A newsboy, walking through the restaurant, attracted his attention and he purchased an evening paper, scanning the headlines while he completed his meal with a chocolate sundae. Bob wondered if the reporters had been tipped off by the trainmen as to what had taken place the night before on the Southern Limited. He searched every page of the paper, but there was no mention of the disappearance of Joe Hamsa. It was nearly mid-evening by the time Bob was through with his meal and he returned to the lobby, inquiring for any possible information about his uncle. “He left about four o’clock,” said the clerk on duty. “I happened to see him step into the street and he turned to the right. I’m positive he hasn’t been back since then.”