Dawson. So that makes him Captain Farmer."

"A gentleman just gave this to the head waiter, sir," the man said, and held out the envelope. "He said it was to be given to either Captain Dawson or Captain Farmer."

"Thanks," Dave said, and took the envelope.

It was plain white and contained Freddy's name and rank, and his own, on the outside. There was nothing else written on the front side. He glanced at Freddy and then turned it over to pry up the gummed flap. He saw that two ink lines had been drawn across the sealed portion. In that way it was possible to tell if the letter had been opened. He peered at the two ink lines and knew that the letter had not been unsealed.

"What do you suppose?" Freddy murmured.

"Could be from the management asking us to leave because you eat too much," Dave grunted, and wedged a finger under the corner of the flap. "But my guess is that it's what we've been waiting for: word from Colonel Welsh. He has a habit of doing things this way, you know. But pardon me! It's addressed to us both. Do you want to open it, my little man?"

"Stop your silly chatter, and open the blasted thing!" the English youth snapped. "I'm on pins and needles."

"Give me time!" Dave growled, and struggled with the flap. "The darn thing seems nailed down as well as gummed. Okay. Here goes for the news."

He got the flap torn open and pulled out what was inside. It was a single sheet of fool's cap paper, and the words on it were neatly typed. He read the two paragraphs that made up the letter, and his scowl deepened with each new word. Freddy, watching him, twisted and squirmed in his chair with suspense. Finally he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Here!" he snapped. "Pass it over, if you don't know how to read!"

"Take a read," Dave said softly, as his scowl remained. "Take a good read, and then you tell me, pal!"

CHAPTER TWO

Night Attack

It was all Freddy Farmer could do not to snatch the letter from Dave's extended hand. He took it, settled back in his chair, and bent his eyes on the typed words. Stunned amazement spread all over his wind- and sun-bronzed face as he read the two paragraphs.

"Upon receiving this you will leave your hotel and proceed to Six Hundred and Ninety-Seven (697) River Street.

"The route you will follow to this address is as follows. Walk from your hotel south to Cort Street. Go west along Cort Street to Tenth Avenue. Then south to River Street, and east to Number 697. There ring the bell under the name, Brown. Be sure to follow these route directions exactly.

"X-Fifteen"

Freddy read it through twice, and then raised his eyes to meet Dave's.

"X-Fifteen?" he murmured softly. "That's one of the code identifications that Colonel Welsh uses! So he must be here in New York, and not in Washington."

"Could be," Dave grunted, and started to push back his chair. "The Colonel gets around a lot, you know. Well, I guess that's us, pal. Certainly screwy orders. That's quite a walk from here. But maybe after you've had Commando training you're a sissy if you take a cab. So—Well, what do you know?"

"Eh?" Freddy Farmer ejaculated. "What do I know?"

Dave stood up and half nodded his head at the other side of the dining room.

"Our rough tough-looking friends have vanished in thin air," he said. "They aren't around any more. Must have got sick of giving us the eye, and pulled out."

"Their perfect right!" Freddy snorted, and got up also. "You were probably imagining things, anyway. Right you are. Let's get on with it. We—Half a minute, my fair weather friend! You haven't left enough money for your share of the dinner."

"One fourth of the bill, plus tip," Dave grunted scornfully. "Read it and weep. Three fourths of that went inside you, sweetheart. I love you like a brother, but I refuse to foot your food bills. Nix! And double nix!"

"Phew, so I did!" Freddy gasped as he ran his eye down the list of things served them. "And the trouble is, I'm still hungry. Oh, very well. Share and share alike, with a tightwad like you. Even figured it out to the penny, too! Now, if you were with me in England—"

"I'd be pleading with the cops not to have you shot for stomach hoarding!" Dave snapped. "Pay up, and shut up. Or pay it off washing dishes. You'd look cute in an apron, Freddy. I could meet you later and let you know what Colonel Welsh has to say. I—"

He stopped and grinned wickedly as Freddy threw him a rapier glare. The English youth paid his share and then joined him as Dave walked out of the dining room. They got their hats from the check girl, and went on out through the hotel lobby to the street. The dim-out had come to New York City, and it made both of them think of London, and other war-scarred cities they had seen.

For several blocks they were too contented with their own thoughts to speak. But when they were almost halfway to their destination, Freddy Farmer broke the silence.

"You know, Dave," he said, "this makes a chap feel rather silly. It's like a game you'd play in school, or something. I mean, why in the world have us follow this particular route? You'd think we had valuable information, and were taking this route to some secret headquarters to throw off possible pursuit. Blasted queer, I call it!"

"You tell me something about war that isn't screwy at first glance," Dave grunted as they turned the corner into Cort Street. "But Colonel Welsh knows his business, and if he wants us to walk all over town to report to him, then we walk all over town. But he sure did pick the darker streets. This one right here makes me think of a coal mine. Watch your step, Freddy, or you may spill into an ash can or something. In this section of town they don't always put them right on the curb. And—"

Dave stopped talking abruptly, and he also pulled up to a quick halt. Freddy went on a pace or two, then stopped and waited.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Think you were running into one of them? An ash can, I mean?"

"No," Dawson grunted, and moved forward again. "Thought I saw something moving up ahead—somebody ducking into a doorway. Doggone it! I must be getting the jimjams. You'd think I were trying to steal across Berlin and give the Gestapo the go-by. Good gosh! This is New York, for cat's sake! And—Freddy!"

Dave had only time to bark out his pal's name as two shadows came charging out of a night-darkened doorway. He sensed them, rather than saw or heard them. It was more that sixth sense, that science calls premonition, that put him on the alert and made him drop halfway to one knee and shoot his hands up and out in front of him.

One of the shadows came at him like a streak of black lightning. He wasn't sure, but in the split second he was allowed to set himself he thought he saw the dull gleam of a knife in an upraised hand. Maybe so; maybe not. He didn't bother to make sure. The silent attacker was coming upon him too fast. There was no time for thought. There was only time for action—furious, split second action for which he had been training these last five weeks.

And so action it was! He dropped like a flash, ducked his head, and then stiffened his legs and shot his body upward, half turning it at the same time. He felt the top of his head crash into a broad chest, and he felt his hands lock about the wrist of the hand that held the knife. A quick pivot on the balls of his feet, and a bend downward that brought the attacker's arm down across his shoulder. He heard the gasp of pain, heard the clatter of a knife hitting the pavement, and then he was arching his back and twisting viciously. The result was that his helpless attacker flew over him like a sack of wet wheat, and slammed down on the pavement on his side. Dave clung to the wrist, but the attacker's greater weight pulled it free, and the man went rolling over