With a little squeeze to reassure his brother, Bob let go of Al’s arm and tiptoed back up the stairway, carefully clinging to the side wall and hoping that this precaution would enable him to get away without causing the steps to creak.
He was successful. Al, noting that the man inside the room seemed to be doing nothing more than standing there considering the layout of the place, guessed that Bob wanted to consult with Curt, watching upstairs. Al felt important: he was in the very heart of mystery, and much depended on him. Therefore he watched with every faculty alert as the man turned his head this way and that, apparently inspecting the stock of wing and fuselage cloth, the boxed instruments, the cases of “dope” for varnishing bodies and wings, the many other visible objects held in reserve.
Bob, slipping along the hallway at the top of the steps, noticed that both offices were lighted still, that both doors were closed, and as far as he could see, nothing had changed up above.
Curt was still watching. He was practically invisible in his nook by the water cooler. Bob, with a small word under his breath, reassured his comrade who came out of hiding as soon as he knew that the footsteps he heard approaching were Bob’s.
“Where did the stranger come from?” asked Bob softly.
“Stranger?” Curt’s voice betrayed amazement.
“The man who came down to the supply room!” Bob was also surprised.
“Was he a stranger?” Curt asked. “I thought it was Mr. Parsons. He came out of that dark directors’ room, beyond me.”
“Oh!” Bob clutched Curt’s arm in a tight grip. “Have you used your eyes, Curt, in daylight? If you have, you recall that there is a fire escape running up the side of the building—and the landing is by that directors’ meeting room window.”
“Is that so? Then, if that window is open——”