The dimout hour for the eastern seaboard of the United States was not many minutes away as Dawson slid the cruiser's seaplane down to a perfect landing in the La Guardia Airport basin. As soon as he had settled, he taxied over to the mooring ramp where attendants took over and tied up. Then Freddy and he stepped ashore and started for the Customs Office.

"Fine lot we've got to declare!" Freddy Farmer spoke for the first time in quite a while. "What with our bags still aboard that Lockheed, and down at the bottom of the Atlantic. I'll never forgive the Jerry beggars for that dirty trick."

"Nuts to baggage!" Dawson cried cheerily, and sucked air deep into his lungs. "We're home, pal! That's what counts. Hot dog! Get a load of this Yankee air, Freddy. It'll do wonders for that flat chest of yours. It—Hey! What are you grabbing my arm for?"

The English youth didn't answer. He simply grabbed Dawson's arm with one hand, and pointed the other at the door of the airport's Customs Office. The Yank air ace took a good look, and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Holy smoke!" he gasped. "Boy! Do they keep tabs on the comings and goings of you and me, pal! That's Colonel Welsh, of U. S. Intelligence. How in thunder did he know we were landing here?"

"Perhaps that cruiser's radio," Freddy grunted. "Or maybe direct from the Air Ministry. But he's here, right enough. And here he comes. Funny thing, though, Dave."

"What's funny?" Dawson prompted when Freddy didn't continue.

"The feeling I've got," the English youth replied in a low tone. "I suppose it's a bit rotten of me to feel this way, but—well, to be perfectly frank, Dave, I don't think I'm greatly overjoyed that Colonel Welsh is here to meet us."

"Huh? Not glad that—?" Dawson began, and stopped short with a gulp. "Oh-oh! I get you, pal. And check and double check. I've got that same feeling. Colonel Welsh isn't the one to take time out to greet a couple of guys going on leave."

"Of course, he could be just making sure that we carried right on down to Washington," Freddy Farmer murmured.

"Oh, sure, sure!" Dawson grunted. "And maybe, too, he just wants to know how the weather was when we left England. Nope. No soap, Freddy. Much as I like the colonel, and he is one swell person, whenever he pops into the picture you can bet your bottom dollar that there's something cooked up for you to do."

"Yes, quite," Freddy sighed unhappily. "But it was a wonderful leave we spent—at sea."

"Couldn't have been better, unless we'd spent it on dry land," Dave shot out of the corner of his mouth. Then, as the Chief of U. S. Intelligence came within earshot, he said, "Well, well, hello, sir! We certainly didn't expect to see you."

"No, Dawson?" the senior officer chuckled as he returned their salute, and then shook hands with them both. "Not disappointed, I hope? Got the flash you'd been launched from that cruiser, and so I flew right up to meet you. Well, you two have been mixing up in it again, as usual, eh?"

"Wasn't any of our doing, sir," Freddy Farmer grinned. "Sort of forced on us, you might say. Forced on Dawson, rather. He's quite a hero. Better than a story book hero, and all that. Why, Colonel, if it had not been for Captain Dave Dawson, we'd—"

"Okay, okay!" Dave interrupted. "The colonel is an old friend, Freddy. He knows us both. Skip it, pal. But, Colonel, is it all right to ask what brings you here?"

For a split second the Intelligence Chief stiffened. His thin face even paled slightly, and he shot a quick glance back over his shoulder.

"You didn't bring it?" he asked sharply. "You lost it, or were forced to destroy it?"

"We have it, sir," Dawson told him quietly, and started to reach for his tunic pocket. "We're to turn it over to you?"

"No, no, don't!" the colonel said quickly. "Not here. Just wanted to know that you have it, so I won't have to make other plans. Well, it's time to eat, I'd say. I've arranged with Customs, and the Military, so come along with me. I've got my car. You're putting up for the night at the Astor. Suite of rooms all reserved for you. So we might as well eat there. And I want to hear of your latest venture, with all the details, of course. But let's get going and—Well, what do you know! I haven't yet said that I'm glad to see you. However, I certainly am—much more than either of you may realize."

Some three hours later, Dawson leaned back in his chair in the Astor main dining-room, and vaguely wondered if his tunic buttons were going to stay on, or pop and go sailing across the room. It was his first made-in-America meal in many, many months, and without any prompting from Colonel Welsh he had started at the top of the menu card and gone right down the list. Freddy Farmer was still eating, but then, he was starting down the list for the second time.

"Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at anything you two pull off," Colonel Welsh suddenly broke the moment or two of silence. "But this latest is certainly tops for sheer nerve."

"And bluff," Dawson interrupted with a chuckle. "Just plain bluff, and one hundred per cent good luck. And if you want the honest truth, Colonel, if anybody had ever told me I'd try for a crazy long shot like that, I'd have told them they were nuts from away back. And that's a fact."

"Bluff, or luck, you did get away with it, Dawson," the colonel said with a smile. "And that's the important thing. But let's get off the war for a little while. Tell me, how does it feel to be back in the United States, you two? Of course, Dawson, I've got a pretty good idea how you feel about it. What about you, Farmer?"

The English youth smiled and gave a shrug.

"I fancy it's all right, sir," he said. "I've always been very fond of America, and there's no reason why I should change now. Of course, I'd have much rather spent our leave in England, but Dave, here, pulled one of your American tricks on me, and I had to come along."

"He's just a hard-headed guy, sir," Dawson explained as Colonel Welsh looked puzzled. "We tossed for it, two out of three, and I won. He still can't get it out of his head that it wasn't crooked."

"But you see, Dave," Freddy spoke up gravely, "I've known you so long, and so well."

"Ouch!" Dawson cried, and clapped a hand to his jaw. "And to think he's the ungrateful cuss whose life I saved a few hours back. But you can bet your life, Colonel, he wasn't making any of his smart cracks then! You should have seen the way he gazed at me. Such dumb appeal, and befuddlement, and helplessness in his eyes. Reminded me of a little kitten I once found lost in a snow bank. Only difference was the kitten didn't give me the high-hat afterward. Okay, my little man! Next time we're stuck aboard a U-boat you can get us out of it!"

"Not a chance!" Freddy said quickly. "Because if I've got anything to say about it, and I hope I'll have, I'm never going to step inside one of those things again."

"Amen to that!" Colonel Welsh breathed.

The trio lapsed into silence for a few minutes after that. Freddy Farmer was content to go on eating, Colonel Welsh seemed to be mulling over some serious thoughts, and Dave was wondering whether or not this was the right place or time to bring up a most important subject. A most important subject, and one that had been worrying him not a little ever since they'd landed at the La Guardia Airport basin. In short, the envelope addressed to Secretary of State Cordell Hull that he still carried in his inside tunic pocket. Rather, the envelope he had transferred from his ripped and torn tunic to the fresh and clean one that had been sent up to the hotel suite.

Apart from Colonel Welsh asking that single question as to whether or not they had brought the envelope, not a word had been mentioned about it. And that fact had Dawson worried, plenty. No, not exactly worried. It had him more bewildered and befuddled. He was sure that the Intelligence Chief had come up to New York to accompany them down to Washington and present them to the Secretary of State. But the senior officer hadn't even said he was going to do that. In fact, he hadn't spoken about anything that he was going to do. He'd simply rushed them over here to the Astor, seen that they were comfortable, that clean uniforms and so forth were sent up, and then had gone away to return in an hour and take them down to dinner. And all during dinner the conversation hadn't once touched on the sealed envelope still in Dawson's pocket.

Was it possible that this was just a friendly meeting? Was it possible that Colonel Welsh didn't know anything about the sealed envelope? Was it possible that the Chief of U. S. Intelligence didn't have a darned thing cooked up for Freddy Farmer and himself? Those and hundreds of other questions whirled and spun around in Dave's brain, as he relaxed comfortably in his chair and let his eyes roam absently over the well filled dining-room. He wondered plenty about those thought questions, but there was one thing he wanted, not wondered. That was to get rid of the confounded envelope. It had come much, much too close for comfort to spelling curtains for Freddy and himself. He would be glad when he was rid of it, and the sooner that time arrived, the happier he would be.

"That envelope you're carrying for Secretary Hull, Dawson—" The Colonel's words seemed suddenly to explode in his ears. "You've got it with you? Or are you carrying it, Farmer?"

Dave jerked his head around, gulped, and nodded.

"Yes, yes, sir, I've got it," he said.

The colonel reached out his hand as though he were asking for the salt and pepper.

"I'll take it," he said. "Give it to me. You're probably pretty sick of carrying it around by now."

Dawson hesitated a moment, completely at sea as to just what to do. The orders at Croydon Airport had been to deliver it in person to no one but the Secretary of State. Of course, Colonel Welsh was different. If he couldn't be trusted, then—

"It's all right, Dawson," the other's quiet voice broke into his scrambled thoughts. "I realize just what you're thinking. And I don't blame you. However, the Secretary is out of Washington for a few days, so you can give it to me."

"Yes, sure, sir," Dawson gulped. "But—but right here?"

"It's all right, don't worry," the colonel said quietly.

Dawson didn't hesitate any more after that. He had been given an order by a superior officer, and there wasn't anything he could do but obey. So he reached inside his tunic, took out the wrinkled and slightly dirtied envelope and handed it over.

"The mailman fell in a mud puddle, sir," he said in a half-hearted attempt at humor. "Sorry."

Colonel Welsh looked at him and grinned. Then as both Freddy Farmer and Dawson stared pop-eyed, he ripped open the flap of the envelope and took a quick look inside. He smiled again, and nodded, and stuck the envelope in his own inside tunic pocket.

"Fine, boys, fine!" he grunted. "This may mean a lot of changes in this war. But let's forget the war. I guess you haven't heard that story that's going the rounds about the private and the sergeant of the guard? It's very funny."

The Chief of U. S. Intelligence made a little gesture with one hand and hitched his chair closer to the table. Then he casually took a cigar from his pocket, and took his own sweet time about lighting it up. And then, just as Dawson was about to explode in confusion, he heard the colonel's low voice carry to him through the cloud of cigar smoke.

"Act as though this one were a howl," he said. "But keep your ears open, and listen carefully. You, Dawson! When I pick up my dessert spoon, let your napkin fall down under the table. Go down after it, and when you get down you'll see another envelope held between my knees. Snake it into your napkin and sit up again. And when you get the chance slip that envelope into your pocket. All right. Here goes with the story. Show lots of interest, and grin and chuckle!"

With that the colonel paused a moment, and then started in on a long drawn out story about a private and a sergeant of the guard. But Dave only heard every other word, if that many. His brain was spinning like a top, and a crazy, cockeyed jumble of thoughts were having a wonderful time playing leap frog. And all the time he watched to see when Colonel Welsh would pick up his dessert spoon. What in thunder was all this about? What other envelope? And why was the Colonel being so cagey about how he was to get it? Holy smoke! Hadn't he just handed Secretary Hull's envelope across the table? Why should the colonel get fancy and make him do tricks to get another envelope he held between his knees? Or was it that something very heavy had dropped down on the Intelligence Chief's head since their last meeting, and the man had gone just a little screwy?

Dawson had no idea, and it was utterly useless even to try to guess. His war experience had taught him to try to take things in stride, and expect 'most anything, and 'most everything. The minute you stopped to figure out the whys and wherefores of things that happened in this crazy war, you were sunk. And so Dawson half listened to the long drawn out story, grinned or chuckled in what he hoped were the right places, and kept half an eye on Colonel Welsh's dessert spoon.

And then, suddenly, the senior officer picked it up and dipped it into the untouched dish of ice cream that was before him. A split second later Dawson gave his napkin a shove so that it dropped off his knees and down under the table onto the floor.

"Excuse me a second, sir," he said, and pushed back his chair a little.

He ducked his head down, and reached for the napkin on the floor. It was there, of course, and so was a letter sticking out from between Colonel Welsh's knees. In one lightning-like motion Dawson scooped up the napkin, flipped it over the extended letter, and sat up in his chair again with the napkin back in his lap, and the envelope safely hidden under it.

"... And so that's why Private Jones swore he'd never be a sergeant of the guard," Colonel Welsh said, and grinned broadly as Freddy Farmer burst into laughter.

"That's top-hole, sir!" the English youth cried. "Very, very funny, really!"

"Sure is a pip, sir," Dawson said as he forced his own lips to grin broadly. "I must remember that one. I sure must."

"I thought it was pretty good, myself," Colonel Welsh nodded. Then, as he seemingly decided against the ice cream, he went on, "Well, how about a walk around New York in the dimout? It's like high noon compared to London and the other cities across the Pond. But maybe you'll get a kick out of it."

"Well, it's New York," Dawson grinned, and pushed back his chair. "So that makes it okay with me. Okay with you, Freddy?"

The English youth cast a fond parting glance at the menu, and shrugged.

"Right you are, then," he said. "Perhaps on the way back we can pop in some place for a midnight bite, what?"

"Not a chance, pal," Dave said, and threw a quick wink at Colonel Welsh. "Wartime rules and regulations. I read about them in England. No male or female over fifteen years of age can have more than seven meals per day."

"Seven meals per day?" Freddy Farmer echoed, and looked puzzled.

Dawson nodded at the collection of empty dishes in front of where the English youth had been sitting.

"And if that lay-out didn't total up to eight full meals, then I don't know my groceries," he said. "So come along, before the head waiter hails a cop to haul you in for busting the law so soon!"

"Blast if I wouldn't stay here and wait for him," Freddy said with a long sigh, "if I only knew that the food in your American jails was as good as this!"