directly into his eyes
did not help any. He rolled over petulantly, but knew he had to get up.

He stumbled out of bed and went in to stand under a cold shower. Ten
minutes later he began to feel a little more human, and decided maybe he
would live after all.

"Never again!" he swore fervently. "I'm just not cut out for serious
drinking. Hope I didn't give anything away to those guys last night."

He dressed slowly, meanwhile striving as best his aching head would let
him, to review his situation. He was fairly well pleased with his
success to date, but the grue of fear was still with him. He was getting
part way where he wanted to be, but ... this was certainly no picnic he
was muscling into. He remembered his father's injunction to take it easy
at first, and grimaced wrily.

Eating breakfast in the hotel dining room, after taking an effervescent
to relieve his headache, he tried to plan his next moves. There wasn't
much he could do, he decided, until they called him. He had made his
bid--it wouldn't do to try to push himself too much, or it would look
mighty fishy to those sharp minds.

He shuddered again, involuntarily, thinking about that enigmatic leader.
Who ... or what ... was he?

Hanlon went first to the bank, and made out a card for his own box. But
once in the vault, and the attendant gone out, it was box 1044 he
opened. There was a note for him.

"Welcome to Simonides," he read. "My name--here--is Art Georgopoulis. I
work at present as a bartender at the Golden Web, on Thermopylae street.
The high-ups in the underworld hang out there, and I pick up occasional
bits of news. If you come in, introduce yourself by asking for 'a good
old Kentucky mint-julep,' Practically no one ever asks for those. I'm
the blond, skinny one at the far end of the bar. If I can be of any
help, just yell. Me, I haven't got to first check station yet--but I'm
still in there punching. Hope you do better--Curt Hooper."

Hanlon "ate" the note, then wrote one of his own, telling what he had
learned to date, what he suspicioned, and what he was trying to do. Of
his new mental powers he said nothing. He did not distrust this SS man,
of course, but if the fellow didn't know he couldn't be made to tell.

As Hanlon left the bank he began to get the feeling he was being
trailed, but could not seem to locate anyone doing it, although he did
not dare search to his rear very carefully. Neither could he catch any
definite thoughts about