"Relax about that thing in your pocket, Dawson," the senior officer said in a low voice. "You'll both get full explanations in a little while. First, though, I want to make sure of something. Take it easy, and let's walk back to the hotel along Forty-Second Street. Good old New York. I'm not a native here, but I always loved this town."
"Me, too," Dawson said with a grin and a nod. "They say that if you hunt long enough and hard enough in New York you can find a touch of every other country in the world in it."
"True as the day you were born," Colonel Welsh agreed instantly. "Including Hitler's Gestapo."
"Eh?" Freddy Farmer gasped out. "What was that you said, sir?"
"The Gestapo," the Colonel repeated in a low voice. "At least, I'm willing to bet my shirt on it. Spotted him in the Astor dining-room, and he's been tagging along after us ever since."
A wild urge to turn around and look back swept through Dawson. However, he killed the urge and kept his eyes front.
"Then he must have seen you take that envelope, sir," he said quietly, "In the dining-room."
"That's what I hope," Colonel Welsh replied quietly. "And the way he's tagging around after us now seems to indicate as much."
"The dirty blighter!" Freddy Farmer muttered. "What's the chap look like, sir? Let's duck around the next corner, and give the beggar something to think about when he comes around. Matter of fact, sir, why have you been letting him tag us around?"
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence didn't answer that question at once. Instead he came to a stop and nodded his head toward a small all-night restaurant on the other side of the street.