Dawson was not sure, but he thought that the Nazi stiffened slightly and gave him a quick side glance. But perhaps that wasn't so. Perhaps to Herr Krumpstadt, Kholerstrasse was just the name of a street in Duisburg. Perhaps it meant no more to him that just that. "Yes, I know where it is," the Nazi replied a moment later. "I will go straight there. And I thank you again, _Herr Leutnant_, for speaking to your friend." "I will not forget," Dawson grunted. And that was that between them until Herr Krumpstadt swung the car into a long, broad street and rolled to a stop at the curb. "May good luck follow you, _Herr Leutnant_," the German said as Dawson climbed out. "And may we have the pleasure of meeting again soon. If one by the name of Pierre Duval should come to my factory, I will instantly inform the nearest Police Post. Heil Hitler." "Good, and a reward will be yours, Herr Krumpstadt," Dawson replied gravely. "Heil Hitler!" The German smiled, shifted gears and drove away from the curb and on down the street. Dawson watched the car disappear and then slowly took his German cap that he had stuck under his belt and put it on his head. A moment later he turned and started walking along the street. He carried himself like a soldier, but his heart was heavy as lead in his chest. He felt as though he were the last person alive in the world, and it was a battle to keep back the tears when thoughts of Freddy Farmer kept crowding back into his head. Good old Freddy gone! He apparently hadn't bailed out soon enough, and the finger of Death had touched one of the finest persons ever to be born. Freddy gone, and--? "But it can't be!" Dawson told himself fiercely. "It just can't be. Not Freddy! He wasn't born to go out that way. Yet--!" He let the rest go unspoken and groaned softly. It was as though his own life were slowly trickling out of him, leaving little more than a dead man to carry on. But that was the thing. Carry on he must, in spite of everything. But how? What next? Getting inside one of the secret factories had seemed so important once. But now? Well, he had been inside Farbin Factory Number Six, and so what? French war prisoners spot welding metal cylinders, and repairing landing gear parts, some of which he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., and in England.