“And then—” The big man did not finish. Instead he sat there staring and as he did so his face purpled. A slip of paper had been inserted between the sheets of papyrus. On it had been written these words:
“You are Peter Schwartz.”
That was all. This could have been a harmless trick had he not for years lived in America under quite another name, and had not Peter Schwartz been wanted for some time by certain gentlemen who made their homes in Washington.
Half rising in his chair, the big man reached for the right-hand drawer of his desk. Sparky beat him to it, striking his arm down. And then the big man found himself surrounded by three men, each as large as himself and more powerful.
A pair of handcuffs clicked. “Come on, Schwartz,” one of the men said gruffly while another lingered for a word with Mary and Sparky.
“Nice work,” he commended. “The F.B.I. owes you a debt of gratitude, as does our government.”
“Most of the credit goes to Mary’s father,” said Sparky.
“And to his friends, the Egyptologist and the one who knows so much about lights.” Mary amended.
“You see,” said Sparky. “As soon as we showed them the roll of papyrus they put a sheet of it under the infra-red light.”
“And that brought out all sorts of things you couldn’t see with the eye,” Mary broke in. “Maps, charts, figures and all kinds of messages in code.”