"Then those two will never know how lucky they are," Freddy Farmer came right back. "But speaking of questions—"
"Check, and double-check!" Dawson echoed, and started across the sidewalk to the main entrance of the War Department Building. "The sooner we ask them, the sooner we may get an idea as to what the heck is going on."
The door guard stopped them and requested identification papers. They complied by producing their leave papers and the wire from Colonel Welsh. The guard referred to a book on his table desk, and nodded.
"Third floor, Captain," he said, and gave them each a building pass that had to be turned in when they left. "Room Three Twenty-Nine."
The two youths nodded, returned the guard's salute, and headed for the stairway. The door of Room 329 was just like all the other doors on that floor except that it had "Colonel Welsh, Private" painted on the glass. Dawson rapped his knuckles on the glass, and immediately received the summons to enter. Colonel Welsh, Chief of U. S. Armed Forces Intelligence, was seated behind a huge desk that seemed to take up most of the office. He was practically hidden behind a mass of papers, bound reports, and such, piled up all over the desk top.
He glanced up, smiled, pushed back his chair, and rose to come around the end of the desk.
"Welcome to Washington again, you two," he said, and shook hands. "A nice flight down?"
"Fine, sir," Dawson replied. "We had a couple of swell air companions, too. You in charge of the F.B.I. now, Colonel?"
"F.B.I.? Me?" Colonel Welsh echoed. "Hardly! Not as long as J. Edgar Hoover continues to run it so perfectly. But what do you mean?"
Dawson stared hard at the senior officer, and then gave a little sigh.