It was almost two hours later before Dave Dawson found himself back again in that very same office. There was a faint frown on his face, and it wasn't entirely for Herr Krumpstadt's benefit. On the contrary, it actually reflected the turmoil going on within him. In other words, he was more mixed up and confused now than he had been before. The factory was five floors high, and Herr Krumpstadt had conducted him to every floor, and had pointed out every French war prisoner performing slave labor. To keep up his part Dawson had keenly studied each new face, but he actually gave more attention to what each man was doing than to his face. And they were almost all doing spot welding on metal cylinders that varied in size from some that were a foot long and three inches through to others that were six feet long and two feet through. One end of every cylinder was left open. And try as he would to convince himself that Farbin Factory Number Six was turning out bomb casings, Dawson knew that they were not. At least, he was as sure they weren't as he could possibly be sure of anything. Yes, the French war prisoners were working mostly on the spot welding of varied sized cylinders, but there were a few who were working on aircraft landing gear parts. And it was that work that puzzled and confounded Dawson far more than the cylinder welding. The landing gear parts were all stripped down, but even at that he was quite sure that he recognized certain parts that were definitely of either British or American make. Repairing British and American plane landing gears in Farbin Factory Number Six? The question seemed to hang in Dawson's brain in letters of fire a foot high as he traveled with Herr Krumpstadt from floor to floor. And he would have given anything he ever hoped to possess if he could but have obtained the answers to the questions that crowded his thoughts. And now he was back in Herr Krumpstadt's office, more confused than ever. And with a sense of frustration that flooded through him like a dank fog. Information; information of goodness knew what value right at his fingertips, and yet he couldn't pick it up without running the risk of falling through the very thin ice over which he was skating. Herr Krumpstadt had regained considerable of his composure, and Dawson could tell without being told that a certain "Gestapo agent" was fast wearing out his welcome at Farbin Factory Number Six. Herr Krumpstadt kept looking at his watch, and there was a faint gleam of annoyance in his close-set pig-like eyes. "Well, I guess he is not working in my factory, _Herr Leutnant_," the German suddenly said with an undertone of impatience. "But I did not think so in the first place, as the Ministry of War Production carefully checks every prisoner worker they send to me. And now, is there anything else I can do for _Herr Leutnant_?"