had not stopped for meals that day since breakfast, and they had
eaten their emergency rations in the early afternoon. In the tool
case on his impounded motorcycle, Harry knew there were condensed
food tables - each the equivalent of certain things like eggs, and
steaks and chops. And there were cakes of chocolate, too, the
most nourishing of foods that were small in bulk. But the
knowledge did him little good now. He didn't even know where the
motorcycle had been stored for the night. It had been
confiscated, of course; in the morning it would be returned to
him.

But he didn't allow his thoughts to dwell long on the matter of
food. It was vastly more important that he should get away. He
had to get his news to Colonel Throckmorton. Perhaps Dick had
done that. But he couldn't trust that chance. Aside from that,
he wanted to know what had become of Dick. And, for the life of
him, he didn't see how he was to get away.

"If they weren't awfully sure of me, they'd have locked me up a
lot more carefully than this," he reflected. "And of course it
would be hard. I could get out of here easily enough."

He had seen a drain pipe down which, he felt sure, he could climb.

"But suppose I did," he went on, talking to himself. "I've got an
idea it would land me where I could be seen from the door -- and I
suppose that's open all night. And, then if I got away from here,
every policeman in this town would know me. They'd pick me up if
I tried to get out, even if I walked."