Bob didn’t relish seeing Arthur Jacobs, his filing chief, under the barrage of questions he knew Condon Adams would hurl at the little man, but he steeled his nerves for he knew that in his new work he must be willing and prepared to face many an ordeal.
They found a small group in a plain room. There was none of the pictured “third degree” methods.
Arthur Jacobs looked worried and tired. He sat behind a table, a pitcher and glass of water within easy reach. Lounging across the table from him was Adams, his fingers drumming incessantly on the table. At another table at one side sat a stenographer and Tully Ross was sitting in a chair tilted back against the wall.
Just after Bob and the intelligence officer arrived, Waldo Edgar looked in.
“Any results?” he asked.
“Not so far,” grunted Condon Adams, “but this fellow has a story to tell and he’s going to break pretty soon.”
A look of desperation flickered for a moment in Arthur Jacobs’ eyes and he turned toward Bob.
“Hello, Mr. Jacobs,” said Bob. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you here.”
There was just a trace of a smile around the filing chief’s lips when he replied.
“I never thought I would be here, Bob. Who’s in charge of the office with both of us away?”