son. Where's Downs?"

"I certainly think," Crawshay admitted, "that under the circumstances
he might have been at the station to meet us."

"He wouldn't even talk through the 'phone," Hobson pointed out. "I had
to explain who we were to one of his inspectors. No one seemed to know
a goldarned thing about us."

"They sent for him right away when you explained who you were,"
Crawshay reminded his companion.

Hobson found no comfort whatever in the reflection.

"Of course they did," he replied brusquely. "There's scarcely likely
to be a chief of police of any city in the United States who wouldn't
get a move on when he knew that Sam Hobson was waiting for a word. I
haven't been in the Secret Service of this country for fifteen years
for nothing. He'll come fast enough as soon as he knows I'm waiting,
but all the same, what I want to know is, if that dispatch was on the
square, why he wasn't at the station to meet us, and if it wasn't on
the square, how the hell do we come out of this?"

Their conversation was interrupted by the tinkle of the telephone
which stood upon the table between them, the instrument which both men
had been watching anxiously. Hobson snatched up the receiver.

"Police headquarters speaking? Right! Yes, this is Sam Hobson. I'm
here with Crawshay, of the English Secret Service. We got your
dispatch.--What's that?--Well?--Chief Downs is on the way, eh?--Just