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ght. I'll say this much, though," she relented, "it will be the biggest challenge that Tom Swift Jr. and Sr. have ever faced!"

"Whew!" Bud remarked as the two boys glanced at each other. "That must mean it's plenty big news! It would have to be, skipper, to top all the other jobs you and your dad have taken on!"

Conquering outer space, probing the ocean's secrets, drilling to the earth's core--these were only a few of Tom Swift's many exciting exploits.

In his first adventure, Tom, in his Flying Lab, had gone to South America to fend off a gang of rebels seeking a valuable radioactive ore deposit. In his most recent challenge, Tom had defied the threats of Oriental killers determined to ferret out the secret of the Swifts' latest space research.

As the two boys silently recalled the exciting events of the past months, Mr. Swift returned to the living room.

Tom and Bud leaned forward in their chairs. "Well, boys," Mr. Swift said, "as I started to tell you, the space

escription, but that was to be looked for and discounted. And she had remembered, at the end, to include her ostensible reason for telling the story.

"Yes, it must have been dreadful," he sympathized. "Odd, though, that an old hand with guns like Mr. Fleming would have an accident like that. I met him, once or twice, and was at your home to see his collection, a couple of years ago. He impressed me as knowing firearms pretty thoroughly.... Well, you can look for me tomorrow, say around two. In the meantime, I'll see Goode, and also Gresham and Arnold Rivers."

CHAPTER 2

After ushering his client out the hall door and closing it behind her, Rand turned and said:

"All right, Kathie, or Dave; whoever's out there. Come on in."

Then he went to his desk and reached under it, snapping off a switch. As he straightened, the door from the reception-office opened and his secretary, Kathie O'Grady, entered, loading a cigarette in

never eat more than anomelette and some fruit for luncheon, compelled to sit down every day toa mittagessen! I wonder I have any digestion left at all."

"Do you mean that you were there under your own name?" he askedincredulously.

She shook her head.

"I secured some perfectly good testimonials before I left," she said."They referred to a Miss Brown, the daughter of Prebendary Brown. I wasMiss Brown."

"Great Heavens!" Nigel muttered under his breath. "You heard aboutAtcheson?"

She nodded.

"Poor fellow, they got him all right. You talk about thrills, Nigel,"she went on. "Do you know that the last night before I left for myvacation, I actually heard that fat old Essendorf chuckling with hiswife about how his clever police had laid an English spy by the heels,and telling her, also, of the papers which they had discovered andhanded over. All the time the real dispatch, written by Atcheson whenhe was dying, was sewn into my corsets. How's that for an excitingsituation?"

th blankets. She may have a slight chill. Give her a warm (not hot) drink of sweetened tea, milk, or boullion. Wipe her hands and face with a damp towel. She may drop off to sleep.

The mother's diet after delivery may include any available foods she wishes. She may eat or drink as soon as she wants to, and she should be encouraged to drink plenty of fluids, especially milk. Canned milk can be used and made more palatable by diluting with equal parts of water and adding sugar, eggs, chocolate, or other flavoring.

For the first 24 or 48 hours after delivery, the mother will continue to have some cramping pains in the lower abdomen which may cause a great deal of discomfort. Aspirin may help relieve these afterpains. She should empty her bladder every few hours for 2 days following the birth. If her bowels do not move within 3 days after delivery she should be given an enema.

MISCARRIAGE

If a pregnant woman shows evidence of bleeding, she should restrict her activities and rest i

inute. I'm just catching up with you. You have the barefaced insolence to warn me. I think I'll slap your face."

"Don't," Doan warned. "Carstairs will bite you if you do. Not that he cares anything about me, but he would feel it was a reflection on him."

Melissa looked at Carstairs. He was lying down on the floor with his eyes shut.

"Don't let him fool you," said Doan. "He's ready to go into instant action. He's just pretending he's not interested."

"Hmmm," said Melissa. "You know, this is all sort of fascinating in a repugnant way, and I know I've seen this Trent party before, but I can't remember where. Have you any idea where I could have seen him?"

"Yes," said Doan.

"Well, where?"

"His wife is Heloise of Hollywood."

"Heloise," Melissa repeated. "Of Hollywood. Oh!"

"Oh," Doan agreed.

"Now wait," said Melissa. "Now wait a minute...I know! He's Handsome Lover Boy!"

"Yup," said Doan.

"Stay right here!" Melissa ordered. "I'll b

the empty ghost of a road, occasionally swigging some water from my canteen. It was rough in my bloody boots; now my ankles were chafed as well. I balanced the rucksack on my head to keep the sun off of it, but that didn't help, and the straps had already dug into my shoulders, so I took to swinging it, tossing it twenty yards in front of me, and then leisurely strolling over just to pick the sack up. No wonder I wasn't getting any nibbles from the few folks who did drive by.

It got dark fast; there was hardly any dusk at all. And behind me, I heard the roar of a convoy, but they weren't old trucks coming my way. Instead, it was wagons, sedans, curvy Studebakers, and even a few old crank cars with rumble seats and shivering fabric roofs. Town cars driving five abreast in tight formation across only two lanes of highway, eating up the shoulders, headlights suddenly blazing a terrible, beautiful amber. I cut into the wood and watched them zoom past from a little ditch I happened to fall into. Above the

the residential quarter of a prosperous town. It should have been surrounded by an acre of well-kept garden, and situated in a private road, with lamp-posts and a pillar-box.

For all that, it offered a solidly resistant front to the solitude. Its state of excellent repair was evidence that no money was spared to keep it weather-proof. There was no blistered paint, no defective guttering. The whole was somehow suggestive of a house which, at a pinch, could be rendered secure as an armored car.

It glowed with electric-light, for Oates' principal duty was to work the generating plant. A single wire overhead was also a comfortable reassurance of its link with civilization.

Helen no longer felt any wish to linger outside. The evening mists were rising so that the evergreen shrubs, which clumped the lawn, appeared to quiver into life. Viewed through a veil of vapor, they looked black and grim, like mourners assisting at a funeral.

"If I don't hurry, they'll get between me and the house,

pter every few days throughout its E-Mail system as a combination of security aware- ness and employee 'perc'. Try it; it works and your employees will appreciate it. Why? Because they'll all talk about it - bringing security awareness to the forefront of discussion.

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preliminary examination.

II

The banking-house of Andre Fauvel, No. 87 Rue de Provence, is animportant establishment, and, owing to its large force of clerks,presents very much the appearance of a government department.

On the ground-floor are the offices, with windows opening on thestreet, fortified by strong iron bars sufficiently large and closetogether to discourage all burglarious attempts.

A large glass door opens into a spacious vestibule where three or fouroffice-boys are always in waiting.

On the right are the rooms to which the public is admitted, and fromwhich a narrow passage leads to the principal cash-room.

The offices of the corresponding clerk, book-keeper, and generalaccounts are on the left.

At the farther end is a small court on which open seven or eightlittle wicket doors. These are kept closed, except on certain dayswhen notes are due; and then they are indispensable.

M. Fauvel's private office is on the first floor over the offices, andleads into hi

shoulders. And under the table there were those long, slender, beautiful legs.

This was their wedding anniversary. He couldn't even remember which one. It didn't really matter. All that mattered was the waking up every morning and seeing her long, silky hair spread out on the pillow, and her face, childlike in sleep, nestled in her arm. Coffee in the sunroom in the morning, Helene in her violet chiffon negligee, or her fluffy white robe, or her bandanna sunsuit, or, on special occasions, the blue satin house pajamas she'd been wearing the first time they met.

"Helene," he said, "every time I look at you I feel as if someone had just given my heart a hot-foot."

Her eyes warmed. "Darling," she whispered, "I didn't know you were a poet!" This time her hand reached out for his, and it wasn't icy cold.

Jake Justus, ex-reporter, ex-press agent, and, as he occasionally reminded himself, definitely ex-amateur detective, sighed again. Happily, this time. That unpleasant knot of anxiety in h