Bob paused a moment. The recent action in the street was so vivid that it was hard to describe. “Uncle Merritt and I decided it would be better to try to make it alone and we parted just as these gunmen unloaded. I managed to crawl back to their car and when they started shooting at Uncle Merritt I took their car and rammed it down the street in an effort to attract their attention and give him a chance to escape.” “Is there any chance that he got away?” asked the federal chief, leaning forward anxiously in his chair. Bob shook his head. “The last thing I remember was a single shot and then someone cried, ’We’ve got him.’ Then someone slugged me and I didn’t regain consciousness until the police arrived. They haven’t found a trace of him.” “I was afraid that was the case,” said the federal chief. “We’ve swung a tight cordon around the entire city and I’m even having the airports checked. We won’t overlook a single angle. Something will turn up before morning.” The telephone buzzed and the federal chief, seized it eagerly, but his face fell as some routine message came over the wire. When he had completed the conversation, he turned toward Condon Adams. “Now that Merritt Hughes is off the case, you’ll be in direct charge of finding him and recovering that paper. I’m assigning Bob to give you some help wherever you need it.” Adams showed his displeasure, but he was careful not to make it too obvious to Waldo Edgar. “Thanks,” he granted. “I may need the kid for some leg work, but he always seems to be getting into trouble.” It was biting sarcasm, but Bob chose to ignore it. “This latest development,” went on the federal chief, “puts us right back where we were after we thought the paper had vanished from the office, while in reality it was in Bob’s pocket. The one prisoner who could have given us some information slipped out of our hands and one of my best agents has been abducted. That means whoever is after this information is both desperate and daring.” The federal chief looked at Bob, whose face was still flushed from the recent fight in the street. “Got a gun, Bob?” “I’ve a .32.” Waldo Edgar shook his head. “That’s not heavy enough,” he summoned an assistant, who returned shortly with a stubby but serviceable gun and two clips of cartridges. “This is a new gun with which we are equipping our agents,” explained Edgar. “It’s a .45 and when you hit anything with that, you stop it, even if it is a freight train. You can’t afford to go rummaging around Washington at night without ample protection while you’re on this case.” “So far I’ve been able to make pretty good use of my fists,” grinned Bob, “but this may come in handy in a pinch.” “Any orders for Bob tonight?” asked Edgar, directing his question at Condon Adams. “I won’t need him,” was the tart reply. “He might as well go home and get some sleep.”