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!"
CHAPTER NINE
Barbara and Whit arrived at the Courier building minutes after of the ambulance, having delayed only long enough to summon a doctor and place a hasty call to Mr. Quinn. Clattering up the stairs, they wrenched open the door to the photographic department and halted just inside.
Stethoscope dangling from his ears, a sober-faced man swung around to face them. He motioned curtly for silence.
"Don!" Barbara stifled the exclamation as her eyes fell on the figure sprawled across the floor.
"Concussion." The doctor's voice was a whisper. "Not too serious, probably, but I won't be able to tell with any degree of certainty until we get him to a hospital. Are you the person who called me?"
Barbara nodded, a tide of relief flooding over her.
In a moment, her weak-kneed sensation ebbed. Glancing around the room, she caught sight of the telephone receiver hanging limply from its cord. It must have taken every ounce of Don's strength to utter those few words. Once he had gasped out his plea for help, he had collapsed, too weak even to replace the phone.
She did so now, moving carefully around Don's motionless form. Whit came up beside her, pointing, and Barbara's startled gaze fastened on the open door of the darkroom.
It was a darkroom that was no longer dark. Light spilled from a harsh overhead globe, glinting on the shiny surfaces of a thousand negatives strewn about the room.
"Looks as if someone wanted his arm and shoulder to remain anonymous," Whit said tightly.
"I'm afraid so." As usual, they were one step behind their diabolically clever adversary. She gestured helplessly at the litter which swamped the darkroom. "How desperate he must have been, to attack Don and-"
"Didn't see him." Thick and halting, the cameraman's words were barely audible. "Bending over. Hit me… "
"You mustn't talk," the doctor interrupted. He motioned for the two white-clad men who had appeared in the doorway to hurry with the stretcher. Within seconds they had whisked their inert patient from the room. Below in the street the wail of a siren receded screaming into the night.
A pair of city policemen wedged into the room, their eyes busily taking in details. Whit, recognizing them as two of the men who had helped search the thicket for Greg the previous Sunday, confided that Mr. Quinn was on his way and asked them to prevent anyone from tampering with the darkroom until the Federal agent had had an opportunity to dust it for fingerprints.
At the entrance of the building a throng of curious onlookers stirred expectantly as the police cordon opened to allow Whit and Barbara to pass through. Ignoring the inquisitive stares, they hurried to the car.
They had driven only a few blocks when a speeding sedan crowned by a flashing red beacon whipped past them. Barbara sighed thankfully, glimpsing a familiar gray slouch hat in the back seat. Somewhere in the disordered darkroom there might lie a clue. If so, Mr. Quinn would find it.
"Did you tell him about the photographer?" she asked. She had gone for her coat while Whit telephoned the Federal officer.
With a pained expression, Whit massaged his ear. "Yes, and you should have heard him. A Geiger counter being introduced to an atom bomb couldn't have made such a racket. He's positive that Buck Younger is in this up to his neck."
"I suppose that negative is burnt to a cinder by this time," Barbara said gloomily. "The spy couldn't risk being seen consorting with a known fugitive. He must have nearly died of apoplexy when that picture appeared in the paper."