Barbara sat up instantly at the first raucous jangle of her alarm clock the next morning. For a few seconds she felt as if she were struggling out of the depths of a nightmare. All too soon, however, the events of the night before came flooding back. The nightmare, every horrible minute of it, had been real.
Mr. Quinn, catapulted into action by Whit's revelation, had called in a squad of city policemen to help search the underbrush and shoreline for some trace of the missing Greg. Throughout the long night, after Whit had left her, Barbara sat with Regina at her bedroom window, watching flashlight beams methodically crisscross every foot of the thicket. But although she had remained at the window until the night's blackness was diluted by gray streaks of dawn, she had heard no cry of discovery, had seen no converging of lights and men at any point.
They hadn't found Greg.
"He'll show up," Barbara told herself fiercely. "It's just morbid to believe that he was kidnapped."
But try as she might, she could think of no other explanation for Greg's mysterious disappearance. She realized now that his theory regarding the theft of the blueprints had been correct-in all but one vital detail. The blueprints were smuggled out of Port Dixon aboard the Albatross, but rather than reclaim them immediately, the spy, for some unknown reason, had left them in their original hiding place.
"Until last night," she murmured.
The fact that Greg had not discovered the documents until the very evening the spy had chosen to retrieve them seemed like a cruel twist of fate. Greg had searched the houseboat again and again, and undoubtedly had noticed the splintered frame beneath the porthole. But even his agile mind did not make the connection until he dropped a letter in a mailbox slot. Then he put two and two together-and blundered into mortal danger.
Descending the stairs, Barbara found Whit and Mr. Prescott drooping over their coffee cups at the kitchen table. Lines of fatigue were etched across their faces and their tired eyes confirmed her guess that neither of them had slept.
"Any news?" she asked, forcing the words around the lump in her throat.
"Not a clue," Whit said disconsolately. "The police found some trampled footprints in the sand, but there's no way of telling who made them. Too blurred."
"Greg is a smart boy," Mr. Prescott said, trying to boost their morale. "He'll find a way to let us know where he is."
"Hope he lets me know personally. I'd like to get my hands on those thugs," Whit growled.
Barbara filled a coffee cup for herself and stirred it pensively. "What about enlisting the Courier's aid?" she proposed. "They could run a photo of Greg and ask that anyone who knows of his whereabouts call Mr. Quinn or Chief Daley."
Whit's answer was an instantaneous "No!"
"That is one thing Mr. Quinn was most emphatic about," Mr. Prescott explained. "Any chance that Greg has of coming out of this predicament alive could be forfeited if there was the slightest whisper of publicity."
"The FBI is pretty sure that Greg wouldn't have admitted calling them," Whit added. "They're banking on the hope that the kidnappers will be lulled into a false sense of security when no further mention of the blueprints is made. If any sharp reporter were to connect Greg's disappearance with those sub plans, though-" He broke off and substituted a throat-cutting gesture for the rest of the sentence.
"Aren't they going to do anything?" Barbara asked angrily.
"They are already doing a great many things," Mr. Prescott assured her. "Every airport and seaport on the West Coast is under surveillance. Every out-of-the-way spot in this vicinity which might serve as a hideout is being visited by Federal men in the guise of door-to-door salesmen. They're working day and night on this case, but under no circumstances must the country's security be jeopardized."
Barbara realized that there was much more at stake than the life of one man. Nevertheless, she feared that this policy of ultra-discretion might cause a delay which could prove fatal to Greg.
"I guess Mr. Quinn knows best," she admitted with a sigh. "I won't breathe a word about it to anyone."
Whit walked with her to the bus stop. Worry showed in every plane of his face, but overshadowing the worry was a rugged look of determination. "Greg is my best friend," he said. "I'm not going to let anyone quit looking until they find him!"
Barbara had anticipated some trouble in keeping her promise to remain silent. The eagle-eyed reporters and cameramen with whom she worked had the ability to practically "smell" a scoop. As it turned out, though, the staff members were too much concerned with an internal crisis to pay any attention to her.
"Mr. MacFarland is on the warpath," Melinda confided in a whisper. "The Herald devoted almost half its front page to a statistical report on their circulation growth as opposed to our decline."
"How bad is it?" Barbara asked.
"It's not bad; it's second-degree murder! And to make things worse, we've lost one of our biggest advertisers to them. If this keeps up, the Courier will be the laughingstock of the newspaper industry!"
Almost afraid to look at it after their gloomy buildup, Barbara picked up a copy of the Herald. The disparity between the two newspapers' popularity was even wider than she had thought. Unless drastic and immediate steps were taken to halt the swing of Courier subscribers to the Herald, it appeared that the Courier would soon cease to be a competitor at all.
"I hope the boss has some bright ideas," she murmured apprehensively.
"He'd better, or he will be getting the axe along with the rest of us," Melinda predicted. "Did you see the notice? General meeting for all editorial staff members at eleven."
Bruce MacFarland had formulated several plans to revive reader interest, Barbara learned. Among these were wider sports coverage, three additions to the comic-strip page, the inauguration of an "inquiring reporter" column, and a variety of contests. Most of these moves were to be expected, but the summons which Barbara received ordering her to report to the Managing Editor's office following the meeting came as a total surprise.
"I'm taking you off Society," Mr. MacFarland announced. "For part of the day, at least. You're going to do the Inquiring Reporter column."
Barbara could not have been more astonished if he had proclaimed that she was slated to be the first girl on the moon.
"Th-that's grand! Thank you," she stammered, realizing that the words were inadequate, but too stunned to think of a more suitable reply.
"Surprised?" he asked with the grimace he used for a smile. "I'm giving you a crack at the job for two reasons. Miss Foster won't be needing a full-time assistant during the slack vacation season-and there's nobody else I can spare to take it on."
In a more businesslike tone, Barbara asked, "What does an 'inquiring reporter' inquire about?"
He shoved a sheet of paper headed "Question of the Day" across the desk. "These. One a day. You pick out a street corner and ask a dozen people the same question. If their answers don't have enough variety, you ask a dozen more. I'll assign a photographer to go along with you."
Still unable to believe her good fortune, Barbara took the list of questions and ran to tell Melinda of her part-time promotion. Later that afternoon, her telephone jingled and Don George said, "Inquiring Reporter? This is the Inquiring Cameraman."
Barbara laughed. "Ready and willing. Meet you downstairs."
The first question of the day was a controversial one, regarding a proposed bond issue in the coming city elections. Barbara, scribbling frantically while Don snapped his pictures, recorded twelve different replies from the first dozen people she queried. There was no need to go on to a second dozen.
"Do you know what one of the contests is going to be?" Don asked as they trudged back to the Courier building. " 'The Mystery Pedestrian.' I'm supposed to make myself practically invisible and aim the camera at a mob of people in the street. Next day when the paper comes out one of the heads in the photo is circled. Cries the Courier, 'Who is the Mystery Pedestrian?' If he shows up at the advertising booth by two o'clock, he's given five dollars."
"What if he doesn't?"
"Then we've found another poor, misguided soul who doesn't read the Courier. His five bucks is added to the next day's winnings."
"I should think the chance of winning a prize would stimulate circulation," Barbara said hopefully.
She transcribed her notes in record time and managed to have the copy in final form by five o'clock. Taking her seat on the bus, she remembered guiltily that she had not thought of Greg Maiden for almost three hours.
Would they-could they have found him?
Barbara crossed her fingers. "Maybe he'll be there when I get home," she told herself.
But when Barbara walked in the door one look at Regina's face told her that no such miracle had occurred. One of Mr. Quinn's assistants reported with almost monotonous regularity; however, the FBI had so far failed to come up with a single lead.
"Nobody can simply vanish into thin air," Whit exclaimed that evening. "With all their technical know-how and trained agents, they've got to turn up a trace of Greg sooner or later."
How much "later" would be too late? Barbara wondered, and then could have kicked herself for letting such pessimistic notions wander into her head. Of course the FBI would find Greg-and soon!
"Regina is being awfully brave about everything," she said admiringly. "If Greg were my fiance, I'd probably be paddling around in my own tears, but she keeps insisting that he will show up before the seventeenth."
"She isn't postponing the wedding plans?" Whit asked, surprised. "Oh, no. She-she has so much faith in him, it's positively heartbreaking. I've never known anyone with such courage." Barbara was close to tears. "Oh, Whit, I'm so afraid! For Greg, and for Regina, too. If something dreadful has happened to him-"
"Stop it!" he said sharply. "Haven't you ever heard of positive thinking?"
Ashamed of her outburst, Barbara nevertheless guessed that Whit was also finding it hard to keep from dwelling on the bleakness of the situation.
"You're right," she declared. "Anything Regina can do, we should at least be able to imitate. She has her faith in Greg-I'm placing my trust in Thomas J. Quinn!"
But however capable, the Federal agent was no magician. Day by day, hopes of Greg's rescue and the recovery of the blueprints waned still further. Although the others struggled with grim determination to remain optimistic, by Thursday Regina was the only one whose faith remained unshaken.
"I just know everything is going to be all right, Mother," she said quietly, when urged to announce a postponement of the wedding.
Regina could not keep the worry from showing in her eyes, though, and for the first time Barbara understood her friend's refusal to alter a single plan. To do so would be to admit that their worst fears might be true.
More than ever Barbara was grateful to Mr. MacFarland for assigning her to the Inquiring Reporter beat. The heavy work load he had placed on her was exhausting but-never dull, and by far the greatest blessing of her involved and varied duties was that she had very little time to brood over the fate of Greg Maiden.
Much to his chagrin, Whit had been forbidden by Mr. Quinn to take any active part in the search for Greg. The Federal man had pointed out that the kidnappers would surely recognize him at once, while his own men worked under the cloak of anonymity.
"He said the spy had probably been watching the boat for days," Whit grumbled to Barbara on Thursday evening. Mr. and Mrs. Prescott had taken Regina out for a drive, and the two had the living room to themselves.
Barbara was sympathetic, but practical. "I'm sure Mr. Quinn is right, Whit. If you were to start pounding on doors, the spy might be stampeded into taking some drastic action."
Whit continued to pace up and down. "There must be something we can do!" he burst out explosively.
In an effort to coax him into sitting down, Barbara reached for a copy of the Courier, which lay on an end table.
"All the new features have brought in sixty new subscribers already this week," she said with a touch of pride. "That doesn't sound like many, but it's a start. How do you like our Question of the Day column?"
"Haven't seen it," Whit confessed sheepishly. "I've even been neglecting the Albatross. Can't seem to concentrate on anything lately."
He skimmed through the column. To Barbara's relief, the hint of a smile touched his lips as he read the dozen responses evoked by the Wednesday question of the day: "How Henpecked Are Husbands?"
"Pretty good," he acknowledged. "A few more items in this vein might make the Herald start gnashing its teeth. Photographing the people who answer the questions is a swell idea. Who wouldn't buy a newspaper that had his picture in it?"
"The contests are our biggest subscription drawing card," she told him. "The Sports Editor received hundreds of replies to the first week's baseball quiz."
She flipped through the pages. "Here is Don's Mystery Pedestrian photo. It's a beautiful shot-not at all blurred. He must have disguised himself as a tree or something."
Whit peered over her shoulder. "Uh-huh," he murmured appreciatively. "Good man with a lens."
"I'll show you what they've done to the sports page," Barbara began, but before she could turn the page, Whit had snatched the paper from her and was holding it under the light for a closer inspection.
"I thought there was something familiar-looking about that guy!" he exclaimed.
It was Barbara's turn to crane her neck. "Who? The Mystery Pedestrian?"
"No, this fellow standing on the fringes of the crowd." Whit pointed out the man. "He's turned at an angle, but you can see most of his face."
"One of your friends?" Barbara asked, wondering at his excitement.
"Not on your life!" Whit seemed unable to wrench his eyes from the half-shaded face in the photograph. "That's Buck Younger!"
There was no mistaking that pugnacious expression, he insisted, or the square, stony jaw thrust belligerently out toward the person to whom Buck was speaking.
"Oh, Whit, do you realize what this could mean?" Barbara gasped. "Greg was positive that Buck Younger collaborated with the spy in stealing the blueprints. He might have been in on the kidnapping, too!"
"And if Buck was in Santa Teresa yesterday, his hideout can't be that far away!" Whit groaned. "If only the photo were a half-inch wider, we could get a look at the man Buck was talking to. You can just see his shoulder and part of his arm."
Barbara admitted that for identification purposes this was very little to go on. "Oh!" she cried suddenly. "The negative! Don might have masked off the edges of it and printed only the main portion showing the Mystery Pedestrian!"
Whit nearly knocked over a lamp in his dive for the telephone book. "Call him, quick! This could break the whole case. Buck wouldn't have risked coming in to town just to see the sights. The other man in the picture has to be the spy!"
With trembling fingers, Barbara paged through to the G's, and hunted until she found a listing for George, Donald. Whit held the phone while she dialed. Gradually the anticipation on their faces dissolved into disappointment as the steady ringing went unanswered.
"I'll try the Courier" Barbara said, determined to call every place in town, if necessary, to track down the cameraman. "I remember Don mentioning that he occasionally uses the darkroom in the evenings."
Unaware that she was holding her breath, she waited while the switchboard operator relayed the call to Don's extension. Once again, the intermittent buzzes aroused no answering voice.
"What rotten luck!" Whit growled as she held the receiver away from her ear so that he, too, could listen.
Barbara started to hang up. The phone was inches away from its cradle when a break in the monotonous buzzing made her tighten her grasp on the receiver. Swiftly, she raised the instrument to her ear.
" 'Lo," said a muffled, faraway voice.
"Don! Is that you?" Barbara cried.
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so," said the voice after a painful pause. "Be a good kid and-and call a doctor, will you? Somebody darn near caved my skull in!"