snapped. "Can the chatter, pal, and just shovel it in. And I'll match you for the check."

"No, Dave, I'll pay it."

"What?" Dawson gasped. "Am I hearing things?"

"I said that I would pay the check," Freddy replied. "No! Not because I am big-hearted, either. Simply to save the trouble of tossing coins with you—and losing as usual."

"Oh, well, don't feel too bad, pal," Dave grinned at him. "You'll catch on to how it's done, some day. Then you can make up for lost time. However, just to prove that I'm a nice guy, I'll pay the check myself."

That last caused Freddy Farmer to go speechless. And he remained speechless while Dawson took the check from the waiter and paid it in full, plus tip.

"Wonderful!" the English youth breathed softly. "I have just witnessed the miracle of miracles, and I don't believe I have the strength to get out to Croydon Airport."

"Oh, Big-Hearted Dawson, they call me," Dave grinned. "Besides, I feel pretty swell right now. And who wouldn't when he was about to head back to the good old U.S.A.! Well, let's go, youngster. That bomber won't wait."

A few minutes over an hour later the two youths climbed out of the taxi in front of the Croydon Airport Administration Building, parked their suitcases outside and went inside to report to Group Captain Bainsworth, R.A.F. Commandant of the field. The senior officer smiled, and nodded as they came to attention and saluted.

"Knew you chaps would be along presently," he said. "Squadron Leader Hixon, your pilot, was in here a moment ago fretting that you wouldn't show up in time. I assured him that chaps going on leave are never late. You've proved that truth again. Well, Dawson, I fancy you're a bit bucked up to be going back to the States, what?"

"Right on top of the world, sir," the Yank air ace informed him. "Not that I don't like England, you understand, sir, but—"

"Quite," the senior officer broke in with a smile. "Any chap wants to see his native land. And you, Farmer? Glad to be going along?"

Freddy half shrugged, and let a little sigh slide off his lips.

"It's quite wonderful out in the States, sir," he said. "But—well, I try to be a good soldier and go where I have to. And this time, it happens to be the States. Of course, I could do with a bit more interesting company, but—"

The English youth shrugged again and made a little gesture with his hands. The group captain chuckled, and Dave shot Freddy a you-wait-until-we're-outside look. Then he grinned broadly.

"Well," the group captain presently said, "I guess the aircraft is about ready. I'll go along out to it with you. Good luck, both of you. And—well, have a marvelous time. Yes, quite! Be sure and have a marvelous time. And the very best of luck."

The way the senior officer seemed to hesitate in saying the last couple of sentences had a queer effect on Dawson. He gave the man's face a keen look, but could read nothing there. Then, with Freddy, he thanked him for his good wishes, and walked with him out of the Administration Building, and over to where a revved up Lockheed "Hudson" bomber was waiting at the far end of the field. They walked almost three quarters of the way in silence, but when they got close to the waiting bomber Group Captain Bainsworth slowed up to a halt and faced them.

"I say, a moment, you two," he said quietly. "A favor I want you to do for me. After you reach New York, you'll be going on down to Washington to say hello to Colonel Welsh, of U. S. Intelligence, no doubt. Well, I have a letter I'd like you to deliver for me. It was sent out here about half an hour ago. Better stick it away out of sight. Best not to let anyone know you're carrying it, you know. Here."

Dawson happened to be standing closest, so he took the sealed envelope that Group Captain Bainsworth slipped out of his pocket and handed over. Dave didn't look at it, though. He looked at the group captain, licked his lips, and frowned slightly.

"Yes, glad to, sir," he said. "But—well, there's the matter of the censors, sir. On the American side, I mean. I may have to turn it over to them for inspection. That be all right, sir?"

"Decidedly not, Dawson!" the senior officer replied gravely. "Let no one see it. But don't worry. Take a look at the name and address, and you'll understand why there's no need to show it to anybody but the right party."

Dave held up the envelope and glanced at what was written on the outside. Freddy Farmer took a look, too. And they both stiffened and caught their breath. The envelope was addressed to—

The Hon. Cordell Hull
Secretary of State
Washington, D. C.

"Jumping catfish!" Dawson choked out before he could check his tongue. "But—but why doesn't this go by diplomatic pouch, sir?"

"I don't know myself, Dawson," the group captain told him. "For a good reason, no doubt. I simply know that it arrived here half an hour ago, along with instructions to turn it over to you two chaps for delivery. Perhaps you'll learn the reasons in Washington. Perhaps not, too. No matter, though. Just take it along, and don't let anybody get so much as a look at it. Well, let's get on over to the aircraft."

"Yes, sure," Dave mumbled, and slid the sealed envelope into an inside pocket. "It will be delivered, sir, without anybody else getting a look at it—not even the censors."

"Splendid, splendid!" murmured the senior officer almost absently. "That's the thing to do. Quite!"

A few moments later Dave and Freddy were in the bomber and Squadron Leader Hixon was slowly opening up the engines to move the aircraft forward toward the take-off runway.

"All aboard, pal!" Dave called out cheerfully to Freddy Farmer. "A late breakfast in Newfoundland, lunch in the air on the way down the Canadian coast, and dinner in little old Manhattan! Boy, oh boy! And then sixty days of having fun!"

"Except when we have to make those blasted speeches for War Bonds!" Freddy Farmer growled out as a tag line.

CHAPTER THREE
Simmering Doom

At almost the exact moment the Lockheed Hudson bomber cleared the runway at Croydon Airport, and went nosing up into the night-shrouded sky, a man entered the lobby door of a certain hotel in the West End section of London, and took the elevator to the fourteenth floor. There he got off, turned to the right, and walked along the corridor until he reached the sixth door on the left. He faced it, and hesitated a moment while he shot a sharp piercing glance back along the corridor. Satisfied that he was alone, he reached out a bony forefinger and stabbed the hotel suite button four times in rapid succession.

Thirty seconds ticked by, and then the door was opened a scant inch. There was no light to be seen through the door opening, only pitch darkness. And then a voice inside grunted, and the door was swung open wider.

"Come in quickly, please!" a soft, hissing voice commanded out of the darkness.

The man passed through into the darkness, and moved a little to the side so that the door could be closed. He heard the latch click. And then at a second click light flooded the suite sitting-room in which he stood. He turned his head and met the eyes of the man who had opened the door. He smiled coldly, and the corners of his mouth were a little drawn and tight.

"You are nervous tonight, Herr Kyoto?" he muttered thickly.

The one addressed as Herr Kyoto smiled broadly, but only with his lips.

"It is better to be nervous than to be a fool, my friend," he said in his soft hissing voice. "A fool dies soon. And a dead fool is of no use to his country, be he Japanese or German. You agree, yes?"

The man who had entered the hotel suite shrugged his massive shoulders, slipped out of his heavy coat and threw it over a chair as he let his big frame drop into another one.

"Perhaps yes, and perhaps