“Don’t worry about that,” Bob reassured him. “Just let me get to a telephone where I can get in touch with Waldo Edgar.” They walked to the corner and then turned to their right. Half way down the next block there was a small drug store and they found a pay telephone there. Bob entered the booth while the sergeant, a blocky, dark-haired man of about 40, stuck his foot in the door so that it would remain open and he could hear the conversation. “Hand me your papers,” he told Bob, and the young federal agent handed over the small leather case which he carried in an inner pocket. Bob’s fingers skimmed the pages of the telephone directory until he found the desired number. Dropping a nickel in the phone, he dialed for the Department of Justice. When an operator answered, he gave his message quickly and concisely. “I’ll give you Mr. Edgar at once,” promised the operator. It was only a few seconds later when Bob heard the voice of the chief of the division of investigation of the Department of Justice. It was a rich full voice, that once heard would never be forgotten. Bob identified himself quickly and then in rapid sentences told what had happened. “Your uncle had the paper the last you saw of him?” asked the federal chief. “Yes,” replied Bob. “He was attempting to reach the far end of the street and escape while I attracted the attention of the men trying to capture him. But I was knocked out and I don’t know what happened. When the police arrived the street was deserted and the bullet-proof sedan was missing.” “We’ll spread an alarm at once,” said Edgar. “See that you are released at once by the police. Then come here at once.” Bob turned to the sergeant. “Satisfied about my identity?” he asked. “You’re okay,” grinned the sergeant, handing back the leather case, which Bob slipped into his coat. “I’ll be over at once,” he promised the federal chief. He stepped out of the booth and started to hasten toward the door, but a question from the sergeant detained him. “Can you give us a description of that car? We’ll have it broadcast over the police radio and also on the teletype circuit. Some of our men may pick up the machine and the sooner we can get a report the better chance we’ll have of finding your uncle.” Bob’s description of the car was meager. He wasn’t even sure of the make, but it had looked like a large Romney sedan. “The windshield is shattered and there ought to be a number of bullet marks on the body,” he said. “I guess that will be the best way to identify it.” “We’ll shut down on every road out of the city. They can’t get away,” promised the sergeant, as he stepped back into the booth to telephone the description to police headquarters. But Bob had his own doubts as to whether the police would be able to apprehend the car. Too much time had elapsed. Even now the big machine might be speeding out of the city.