The stranger was hurrying up the street toward Peter. This was not, in itself, cause for alarm. Thousands of good, solid, liberty-loving Americans had doubtless been caught off guard by the wail of the sirens. But _this_ man, who seemed to cling to the darkest shadows of an everywhere-dark road, made no sound as he walked! He glided forward noiselessly. Moreover, his diminutive but chunky frame bent beneath the burden of a heavy gunnysack that might have contained-- What? wondered Peter Pettigrew. Anything! Anything at all, he decided. Bombs, hand grenades, ground glass! His jaw tightened; he stepped forward. "Just a moment, there!" he piped peremptorily. "Who are you? What are you do--?" But the sinister stranger either did not hear him or chose to disregard his challenge. He had paused, now, before the very door of the Armory, taken from somewhere and scanned what appeared to be a notebook. He nodded his head pleasedly and turned to the building. The rap of his knuckles was soft in the silence; the door swung open and he vanished. Peter sprang into action. This was all wrong! This was his post; if it were learned that he had permitted anyone to effect entrance into the Armory unquestioned he would lose his precious Wardenship. Perhaps even--Peter quaked--since this incident had occurred in line of duty, he would be tried by a military court, found guilty, and shot at sunrise! On legs that felt suddenly hollow, he raced forward, hurled himself at the Armory door and pounded frantically. A uniformed private of the regular Army opened it for him. The soldier looked faintly surprised. "What--Oh, hello, there! You're the warden on duty here, aren't you? What's up? Blackout over?" "It's an all night practice," snapped Peter, "as you ought to know. But never mind that now. That stranger--who was he? Where did he go?" "Huh?" The soldier stared at him curiously. "Is it a gag, buddy? What stranger?" "The one," rasped Peter, "you just admitted. He refused to answer my challenge--" "Are you crazy?" The soldier sniggered drowsily and leaned his rifle against the wall. "Nobody came through this doorway, bud, except you." Quick suspicion fanned to a fiercer blaze in Peter's bosom. Then his hunch had been right! The sinister stranger _was_ an enemy agent, and this soldier in Uncle Sam's khaki was a dupe, a hireling, a Fifth Columnist! With a swift movement he grasped the guard's rifle, levelled it at its owner. "So!" hissed Peter Pettigrew, patriot. "You thought you could get away with it, eh? Well, the jig's up! Over my dead body you'll pull one of your dastardly Nazi tricks! Not a move, now! Move a muscle and I--I'll shoot--" And his finger tensed on the trigger. But the other man's face did not draw into the lines of hatred and violence Peter half expected. Instead, the soldier grinned amiably at him.