On the morning of the third day he dialed Steve Hackett and on seeing the other’s worried, pug-ugly face fade in on the phone, decided that if nothing else the Movement was undermining the United States government by dispensing ulcers to its employees. Steve growled, “What is it Woolford? I’m as busy as a whirling dervish in a revolving door.” “This is just the glimmer of an idea, Steve. Look, remember that conversation with Susan, when she described her father taking her to headquarters?” “So?” Steve said impatiently. “Remember her description of headquarters?” “Go on,” Steve rapped. “What did it remind you of?” “What are you leading to?” “This is just a hunch,” Larry persisted, “but the way she described the manner in which her father took her to headquarters suggests they’re in the Greater Washington area.” Steve was staring at him disgustedly. How obvious could you get? Larry hurried on. “What’s the biggest business in this area, Steve?” “Government.” “Right. And the way she described headquarters of the Movement, was rooms, after rooms, after rooms into which they’d stored the money.” “And?” Larry said urgently, “Steve, I think in some way the Movement has taken over some governmental buildings, or storage warehouse. Possibly some older buildings no longer in use. It would be a perfect hideout. Who would expect a subversive organization to be in governmental buildings? All they’d need would be a few officials here and there who were on their side and—” Steve said wearily, “You couldn’t have thought of this two days ago.” Larry cut himself off sharply, “Eh?” Steve said, “We found their headquarters. One of their members cracked. Ben Ruthenberg of the F.B.I. found he had a morals rap against him some years ago and scared him into talking by threats of exposure. At any rate, you’re right. They had established themselves in some government buildings going back to Spanish-American War days. We’ve arrested eight or ten officials that were involved.” “But the money?” “The money was gone,” Steve said bitterly. “But Susan was right. There had evidently been room after room of it, stacked to the ceiling. Literally billions of dollars. They’d moved out hurriedly, but they left kicking around enough loose hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens and fives to give us an idea. Look, Woolford, I thought you’d been pulled off this case and that Walt Foster was handling it.” Larry said sourly, “I’m beginning to think so, too. They’re evidently not even bothering to let me know about developments like this. See you later, Steve.” The other’s face faded off. Larry Woolford looked across the double desk at Irene Day. “Look,” he said, “when you’re offered a promotion, take it. If you don’t, someone else will and you’ll be out in the cold.” Irene Day said brightly, “I’ve always know that, sir.” He looked at her. The typical eager beaver. Sharp as a whip. Bright as a button. “I’ll bet you have,” he muttered. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Woolford?”