“Come on.”
They hastened out of the main building and to the garage where the company’s officials kept their cars. Potter’s runabout was there. “Pile in,” he said. “Where to?”
“Cantor’s office.”
Potter shot out of the archway and whirled down-town through the clear, chilly December air. He did not stop for corners or traffic officers, but, keeping his knee against the horn button, gave the car all he could give it—and Downs clung to his seat and prayed.
They drew up abruptly before the entrance to the building where Cantor maintained an office, and sprang out. The elevator carried them to the seventh floor.
“The thing is to get in without scaring whoever is there,” said Downs. “In this case the papers filed there are as valuable, more valuable, than the men. We must give them no time to destroy anything.”
Good fortune was with them. As they approached Cantor’s door a man opened it and was about to step into the corridor. Downs stepped forward quickly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but can you tell me where James W. Rogers’s office is?”
The man stood with the door half opened behind him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I never heard the name.”
By that time Downs was within arm’s reach. He lunged forward, gripped the man, and hurled him backward through the door. Potter leaped after them.