"Well, I wish you'd get in touch up there with the principal, or one of the teachers or somebody, and see if they can't round up two or three of the kids who were run down. They ought to be able to identify one or two of the gang in that stolen car. According to the wop that keeps the banana stand, there were a bunch of 'em coming out of school when the car ploughed through. There must be at least two who could make some identification. The chief wants to get at least two of 'em down as soon as possible." "I'll see what I can do, but if the two who were run down were the only ones that could identify...." "Well, you know the chief; he wants what he wants when he wants it. Even if their necks were broken he'd expect 'em to remember whether or not they saw a machine gun in that car. So that's that." The girl seemed listlessly tolerant. "I'll get in touch with them as soon as I come back from lunch. Will that do?" The young man nodded and the door closed behind him. Skippy too departed, thoughtfully, hopefully, and with machine guns booming in his active brain. _Gangsters, a stolen car!_ The International was on the trail of something. The question uppermost in his mind was--how long a time would the typist remain out at lunch? He hurried down the hall, then darted into the shadow of a stairway from which vantage point he could keep his bright eyes on the International Agency's door. There was no doubt of it now--Skippy too was on the trail of something. CHAPTER II CRASHING IN It was only a matter of seconds when the door of the International offices opened and the pretty typist stepped into the hall. Her high heels clicked briskly along the tiled floor and she looked neither to the right nor left, but hurried straight to the elevators. Skippy, meanwhile, had backed down farther into the shadow and was standing on the landing, his slim body almost rigid against the cool wall. There was a moment's silence in which he stood tense, listening, until at last the metallic clang of the elevator door opening and closing echoed down to him. He relaxed immediately and his face crinkled in a smile. With a weather eye on the landing above and the landing below he hastily removed his coat and tore from his new white shirt a goodly strip of the muslin. This had the effect of setting his collar and tie somewhat awry but he hadn't time to worry over that detail. He was too busy improvising a presentable sling in which to rest his left arm. He had a momentary impulse to bandage his head also, but he was too true an artist to overdo the thing. Be that as it may, luck was with him, for a moment later, when he presented himself at the International offices, he found a small group of men, presumably detectives, talking earnestly in the reception room. One glance at Skippy and two of the men hurried forward to open the door just beyond.