Chapter XIX

THE WARNING
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“Gassed!” exclaimed Bob incredulously.

“Certainly. Tully got a full-sized dose and you probably got only half a one, which accounts for the varying degrees of your illness and nausea.”

“But we couldn’t have been gassed,” replied Bob.

“Oh yes you could. Modern crooks sometimes turn to science to help them and I know as a fact that small amounts of gas, which make the victim desperately ill, can be obtained in thin glass capsules. These capsules are so small they can be flipped off the end of a finger or thrown in some other manner with great accuracy. If they strike near the nose, the impact shatters them and the gas is released, causing a violent illness which usually makes the victim unconscious.”

“That’s what happened,” cried Bob. “Why your explanation fits perfectly, only I didn’t get a full dose. Perhaps there was too much fresh air in the car I was in.”

“The pellet of glass might have struck you a glancing blow,” suggested his uncle.

“How can you defend yourself against this?” asked Bob.

“The only safe way would be by a gas mask, but now that you know such things can happen you can be on the lookout. If you ever feel a similar impact that arouses your suspicion, don’t breathe, but rush to some other spot before you take another gulp of air. That should enable you to escape the gas.”

“I’m going to remember that,” promised Bob.

“Better take a nap now. After you wake up you can type out your detailed report for Washington,” advised Merritt Hughes.

Bob didn’t especially relish the idea of sleeping when he felt he should be on his way to Atalissa, but he was thoroughly relaxed and a great fatigue had crept over him. So it was with real gratitude that he crept in between crisp sheets. He was asleep in less than a minute. Some time later his uncle looked in and pulled down the shades at the windows. Later he went out for a time, and when he returned Bob was still in a deep sleep. It was late afternoon before Bob finally roused from his slumber, but he felt much like his former self. Of course there were a few bruises and several strained muscles, but he could walk without creaking in every joint.

Bob dressed and went into the adjoining room which his uncle occupied. The federal agent had gone out several hours before, but his portable typewriter was on a low table and Bob sat down and started to work on his report which was to be air mailed to Washington.

The report was lengthy for Bob went into great detail and the afternoon faded into early night. He snapped on a desk light and continued with his work. When he was through he straightened up and stretched his arms for he had been hunched over the typewriter for more than an hour and a half.

Bob leaned back in his chair and read the report with care, correcting an occasional error which he had made in the manuscript. That done, he addressed a large envelope, and went down to the desk in the lobby where he secured air mail stamps and learned that by prompt mailing the letter would be delivered in Washington the next morning.

Bob was hungry, but he waited for a time for his uncle. Now that he was thoroughly rested, he was anxious to make plans for the trip to Atalissa. After waiting in the lobby for half an hour, Bob went into the dining room which opened to the right, leaving word where he could be found.

A supper with a fresh fish steak as the main course appeased his hunger and he ate leisurely. A newsboy, walking through the restaurant, attracted his attention and he purchased an evening paper, scanning the headlines while he completed his meal with a chocolate sundae.

Bob wondered if the reporters had been tipped off by the trainmen as to what had taken place the night before on the Southern Limited. He searched every page of the paper, but there was no mention of the disappearance of Joe Hamsa.

It was nearly mid-evening by the time Bob was through with his meal and he returned to the lobby, inquiring for any possible information about his uncle.

“He left about four o’clock,” said the clerk on duty. “I happened to see him step into the street and he turned to the right. I’m positive he hasn’t been back since then.”

Bob thanked the clerk for the information, meager though it was. It would do no harm to go for a stroll and he stepped out into the street. Like his uncle had done, he turned right on a street which led down to the water front.

He soon found himself in a poorer part of the city. Street lights were far apart and their globes dirty. Houses and shops seemed to be hiding and the men who went along the street did not look up.

Two policemen strolled by and Bob whistled for he knew what it meant when officers made their beat in pairs. He doubted whether his uncle had visited this district and he turned and walked back to the hotel.

A clock was striking ten when Bob re-entered the lobby. He was almost at the elevators when the clerk called to him.

“Telephone call just coming in for you,” he said. “You can answer here if you wish.”

Bob hastened over to the desk. It must be his uncle, phoning to tell him that he had been detained.

Bob picked up the instrument which the clerk handed him and placed the receiver to his ear. A gruff voice spoke, “Is this Bob Houston?”

It was a strange voice and Bob tried to catalog its timbre, for it was pitched unusually low.

“This is Bob Houston speaking,” he replied quietly.

“Then listen to what I’ve got to say. We’ve got your uncle and we’ll get you and any other federal men who attempt to trail us. Get off this case and stay off if you ever want to see him alive again and you can tell that to Washington.”