Apart from Colonel Welsh asking that single question as to whether or not they had brought the envelope, not a word had been mentioned about it. And that fact had Dawson worried, plenty. No, not exactly worried. It had him more bewildered and befuddled. He was sure that the Intelligence Chief had come up to New York to accompany them down to Washington and present them to the Secretary of State. But the senior officer hadn't even said he was going to do that. In fact, he hadn't spoken about anything that he was going to do. He'd simply rushed them over here to the Astor, seen that they were comfortable, that clean uniforms and so forth were sent up, and then had gone away to return in an hour and take them down to dinner. And all during dinner the conversation hadn't once touched on the sealed envelope still in Dawson's pocket.
Was it possible that this was just a friendly meeting? Was it possible that Colonel Welsh didn't know anything about the sealed envelope? Was it possible that the Chief of U. S. Intelligence didn't have a darned thing cooked up for Freddy Farmer and himself? Those and hundreds of other questions whirled and spun around in Dave's brain, as he relaxed comfortably in his chair and let his eyes roam absently over the well filled dining-room. He wondered plenty about those thought questions, but there was one thing he wanted, not wondered. That was to get rid of the confounded envelope. It had come much, much too close for comfort to spelling curtains for Freddy and himself. He would be glad when he was rid of it, and the sooner that time arrived, the happier he would be.
"That envelope you're carrying for Secretary Hull, Dawson—" The Colonel's words seemed suddenly to explode in his ears. "You've got it with you? Or are you carrying it, Farmer?"
Dave jerked his head around, gulped, and nodded.
"Yes, yes, sir, I've got it," he said.
The colonel reached out his hand as though he were asking for the salt and pepper.
"I'll take it," he said. "Give it to me. You're probably pretty sick of carrying it around by now."
Dawson hesitated a moment, completely at sea as to just what to do. The orders at Croydon Airport had been to deliver it in person to no one but the Secretary of State. Of course, Colonel Welsh was different. If he couldn't be trusted, then—
"It's all right, Dawson," the other's quiet voice broke into his scrambled thoughts. "I realize just what you're thinking. And I don't blame you. However, the Secretary is out of Washington for a few days, so you can give it to me."
"Yes, sure, sir," Dawson gulped. "But—but right here?"