The Indian swerved, in the hall, into an office. Chick thought he had him cornered until the slam of intervening doors told that his adversary of the design room screen episode was out through the intersecting office suite, and had beaten him.
Chick ran to the fire escape at a window.
Down its iron rungs he went swiftly.
A figure, running lightly, crossed the hangar apron of cement, got to a car. Chick, putting every ounce of energy into his effort, ran, after a leap from the fire escape ladder, to try and reach the car.
“This way—he’s going away in a car!” Chick shouted, to guide the men from the control room.
Then he saved his breath, his task being to get to the car before the youth could get in. It was a light, cheap make of sedan.
Something Garry had told him seemed to come uppermost in Chick’s mind, some recollection; but he was too excited to pause and make sense of it.
The motor roared, gears ground into mesh, the car started.
Chick’s clutching fingers barely missed the rear tire.
He fell, carried forward by his leap, and lay, prostrate.