Breakfast at an end, they left the hotel and the intelligence officer hailed a taxicab. “We’ll go down and listen in on this grilling,” he said. Bob didn’t relish seeing Arthur Jacobs, his filing chief, under the barrage of questions he knew Condon Adams would hurl at the little man, but he steeled his nerves for he knew that in his new work he must be willing and prepared to face many an ordeal. They found a small group in a plain room. There was none of the pictured “third degree” methods. Arthur Jacobs looked worried and tired. He sat behind a table, a pitcher and glass of water within easy reach. Lounging across the table from him was Adams, his fingers drumming incessantly on the table. At another table at one side sat a stenographer and Tully Ross was sitting in a chair tilted back against the wall. Just after Bob and the intelligence officer arrived, Waldo Edgar looked in. “Any results?” he asked. “Not so far,” grunted Condon Adams, “but this fellow has a story to tell and he’s going to break pretty soon.” A look of desperation flickered for a moment in Arthur Jacobs’ eyes and he turned toward Bob. “Hello, Mr. Jacobs,” said Bob. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you here.” There was just a trace of a smile around the filing chief’s lips when he replied. “I never thought I would be here, Bob. Who’s in charge of the office with both of us away?” “I don’t know, but I’ll find out if you like.” “I would,” said the filing chief simply and Bob stepped into an adjoining office and telephoned the archives division, where he was informed that a senior clerk from another office had taken over the duties temporarily. When Bob stepped back into the larger room, Jacobs was sweating freely. “Everything’s all right at the office,” volunteered Bob, who felt sorry for the little man. “Bondurance, from the next office, is taking charge and they’re getting along all right. Of course they miss you.” “I’m afraid they won’t get those papers back in the proper order. It’s an awful mess.” Bob agreed that it was and he couldn’t make himself feel that Arthur Jacobs, so obviously worried about the routine at the office, could be guilty of anything very bad. “Come on, now Jacobs,” broke in the heavy voice of Condon Adams. “Quit this stalling and get down to business. How much did you get for selling out this secret?” “But I tell you I didn’t get anything,” replied the filing chief, spreading his hands out on the table in a dramatic denial. “How many times must I tell you this?” “Until you tell me the truth and admit that you were paid to sell information on a government secret.” “Oh, go away; quit bothering me,” cried the man behind the table. He stood up and pointed at Adams. “Get out! Get out! Leave Bob here I’ll talk to him; I can trust him!” Condon Adams half rose in utter surprise at the force of Jacobs’ words. Then he dropped back into his chair and a look of sullen resentment swept over his face. “You’ll tell me, or no one,” he growled.