“No. I thought it was best to come right here and tell you. I didn’t get the number of the car for I was too busy trying to crash through that blamed barberry.”
“That’s not important. They’ve either abandoned the car or changed the license plates by this time. Can you describe the men who were in it?”
Bob supplied a detailed explanation and his uncle jotted the facts down on a small card.
“This will give us a lead to work on. Later we’ll go over to the bureau of identification and run through some pictures of red heads and men with scars on their foreheads. Maybe we can pick up some real clues there.”
Bob was tempted to relate the incident of the early morning at his room when someone had tried to gain access, but he hesitated to tell this in front of Tully. It sounded a little like a fairy tale or the work of an overwrought imagination.
The door to an inner suite of offices opened and a dapper, well-built man of about 38 stepped into the room. Behind him was Condon Adams.
Bob felt his pulse quicken for even before their introduction he recognized Waldo Edgar, ace of all the federal manhunters and chief of the bureau of investigation.
Edgar looked at the handkerchiefs on Bob’s hands and smiled quizzically.
“Fighting?”
“No, just plain barberry thorns,” replied Bob.