“All of the breaks have been against us so far,” he mused, half to himself and half to Bob, “but we’re bound to find something coming our way soon.”
“I’m anxious to see the fellow who is being held at the police station,” said Bob. “Surely you’ll be able to get some information out of him.”
“Remember you’re working on this case, too. Better say ’we’ instead of ’you’ when you’re talking about it. This is the firm of Hughes and Houston, working for Uncle Sam on a radio mystery.”
Their cab pulled up in front of the War Department and they entered and hastened to an upper floor where the federal agent rapped sharply on a door marked “Major Francis McCreary, Private.”
“Come in,” a heavy voice on the other side rumbled and Merritt Hughes opened the door.
Bob, looking in, saw a heavy man, a huge thatch of hair bristling over his forehead, at a flat-topped desk. He rose as they entered.
“Hello, Hughes,” greeted the major. “Right on time.” He nodded toward a desk clock.
“Made it with nothing to spare,” grinned Bob’s uncle. Then he added, “Major, I want you to know my nephew, Bob Houston. He’s working with me on this case. Bob’s the man who captured our radio thief last night and I’m counting on him as a valuable inside man in the department over there.”
“Glad to meet you,” boomed the major, offering a warm handclasp. “Are you in the Department of Justice?”
Bob started to reply but his uncle spoke first.