Chapter II: Part 2

With Bill at her right and Mr. Bolton at her left elbow, Dorothy pushed her way through the crowd behind her father to the entrance of the Bank. The policeman at the head of the short flight of steps to the doorway stood aside at a word from Mr. Dixon. The four passed inside and the heavy door swung shut behind them.

"Rather like locking up the barn after the sheep vamoosed, isn't it?" Bill nodded over his shoulder toward the police guard.

"Never mind, son--this isn't our party," rebuked his father.

A fat man in a dark blue uniform, rather tight as to fit and much be-braided, came bustling up. "Who are these men, Mr. Dixon?" he inquired pompously. "Can't have strangers around the bank at this time--"

"From what I hear, Chief, you and your men let some strangers get away with about everything but the bank itself a little while ago." Mr. Dixon's tone showed his annoyance. "These gentlemen are friends of mine. What's actually happened? Give me some facts. Anybody hurt? Anybody caught? Just what has been taken?" Questions popped like revolver shots.

"Well--it's like this, sir--" The Chief seemed pretty well taken down.

"Thunderation! You and your sleuths are enough to tempt any man to law breaking. There's Perkins! Perhaps I'll learn something from him."

Mr. Dixon strode toward the rear of the bank.

"You mustn't mind Dad," Dorothy said consolingly. "Just now he's half crazy with worry, Chief.--These gentlemen are Mr. Bolton and his son. They've bought the Hawthorne place, you know."

Chief Jones mopped his perspiring face with a red bandanna and then shook hands all around. "Terrible warm tonight--terrible warm. Well, let's go over and find out what's what. I was over to a party at my daughter Annie's--only just got in here myself. Annie--"

"Yes, let's find out what has happened." Dorothy cut in on this long-winded effusion, and led the way behind the tellers' cages to where her father and several other men were standing before the open vault.

"Ah, here's the watchman now!" cried Mr. Dixon as a man, his head completely covered with bandages, came toward them and sank weakly into a chair. "Now, Thompson, do you think you can tell us exactly what happened, before Doctor Brown drives you home?"

"Yes, sir. Glad to." The man's voice, though feeble, betrayed excitement. "He sure knocked me out, that bird did--but I'd know him again if I saw him. I c'd pick him out of a million--"

"That's fine," Mr. Dixon interrupted gently. "But start at the beginning, Thompson, and we'll all get a better idea of him."

"That I will, sir, and 'right _now_!' as that French guy says over the radio.... Well, it was about eight o'clock and still light, when the night bell buzzed. I was expecting Mr. Perkins. He'd told me he'd be back after supper as he had some work to do. I'd been readin' the paper over there by the window, so I got up and opened the front door. But it wasn't Mr. Perkins. A young fellow in a chauffeur's uniform stood outside."

"'I'm Mr. Dixon's new chauffeur,' he said. 'Here's a note from him. He tried to ring you up, but the phone down here seems to be out of order. He said you'd give me a check book to take back to him. Better read this.' He passed over a letter--"

"Have you still got it?" asked Mr. Dixon.

"I think so. Yes, here it is, in my pocket." Thompson handed the missive to the bank president, who read it aloud:

"'Dear Thompson:

'Please give the bearer, my chauffeur, a blank check book and
oblige

'Yours truly,
'John Dixon.'"

"Looks like my handwriting," sighed Mr. Dixon when he had finished, "but of course I didn't write it!--What happened after that?"

"Well, sir, he asked me if he could step inside and take a few puffs of a cigarette, seein' as how you didn't like him to smoke on the job. So I let him in. Then I goes over to one of the desks for a check book and--I don't remember nothin' about what happened next, until I found myself in the far corner yonder, with Mr. Perkins near chokin' me to death with some water he was pourin' down my throat--and a couple of cops undoin' the rope I'd been bound up with. I reckon that feller must have beaned me with the butt of his revolver just as soon as I'd turned my back. Doc here, says as how the skull ain't fractured--but that bird sure laid me out cold. If I hadn't had my cap on, he'd of croaked me sure. Of course, I shouldn't of let that guy inside, but--"

Mr. Dixon's tone was abrupt as he silenced Thompson with a word. "Thank you, Thompson," he said. "You are not to blame. If you hadn't let him in, he might have shot you at the door. Doctor Brown is going to take you home now. Lay up until you feel strong. And don't worry."

He patted the man on the shoulder and Thompson departed, leaning on the doctor's arm.

"I guess you're next on the list, Harry." Mr. Dixon nodded to Perkins. "How did you happen in here tonight?"

The cashier, a slender young man, prematurely bald, and dapper to the point of foppishness, removed his cigarette from his mouth and stepped forward.

"Had that Bridgeport transit matter and some other work I wanted to finish," he said crisply. "Told Thompson I would be back about eight-thirty. Matter of fact, it was twenty to nine when I rang the night bell. I rang it several times, no answer; then tried the door and found it unlocked. I thought something must be wrong--and was sure of it when I stepped in and saw Thompson lying on the floor, his arms and legs bound. Saw that he was breathing, and went to the phone. It was dead--couldn't raise Central. I didn't waste much time then, but ran out and hailed Sampson, the traffic cop on the corner. Told him there'd been a holdup here, so he blew his whistle, which brought another policeman and we three raced back here."

"You brought Thompson to and cut his bonds--then what?"

"I went to the vault. The door was ajar, with books and papers scattered all over the place. Haven't had a chance to check up, but it looks as though everything in the way of cash and negotiable securities has been taken."

"But the door hasn't been damaged--they couldn't have blown it open!"

The cashier shook his head. "No," he admitted, "they opened it with the combination. Must have used a stethoscope or the Jimmy Valentine touch system--"

"Not with that safe, Perkins. But how about the time lock?"

"It is never put on, sir, until we have no more occasion to use the vault for the day. I notified the Protective System people that I would be working here tonight and would set it when I was through."

"Humph!" growled the president in a tone that boded ill for someone. "So the time lock wasn't set!"

"It is the usual practice, sir," explained Perkins nervously. "I--"

"Never mind that now. Anyone else know anything about this robbery?"

"Yes, sir. Sampson, the traffic policeman saw the car."

"Well, let's hear from Sampson, then, if he's here."

The officer came forward rather sheepishly.

"I was directin' traffic at the corner of Main Street and East Avenue, sir, when I seen your car run down Main and stop in front of the bank here."

"_My_ car!" exploded Dorothy's father.

"Yes, sir--least it was a this year's Packard like you drive--and it had your license number on it--AB521--I ought to know, I see it every day."

"Yes, that's the number--but--well ... did you notice it further?"

"Yes, sir, I did. That was about eight o'clock. The chauffeur got out and rang the bell at the entrance to the bank. Then I seen him speak to Thompson and pass inside."

"Did you investigate?"

"Why, no, sir. The man came out almost directly and the door swung shut behind him. Then he jumped into the car and drove up the alley at the side of the bank. You always park your car there, sir, so I thought nothin' of it. About twenty minutes later, out he drove again and up Main Street the way he'd come. And that's the last I've seen of him."

"There was only one man in the car--the chauffeur?"

"I only saw one. If there was anybody else, they must've been lying down, in the bottom of the car."

"Very likely." Mr. Dixon turned to the chief of police. "And what has been done toward catching the thieves--or thief?"

"Nothing, as yet," the Chief confessed. "But I'll get busy on the wire with descriptions of the man and the car right away. You see, I only just--"

"Never mind that--get along now and burn up the wires. That car has had over an hour's start on you. I'll look after things here for the present."

The head of the local police force waddled off with much the air of a fat puppy who had just received a whipping, and Mr. Dixon walked over to Mr. Bolton.

"You can do me a great favor, if you will," he said.

"Name it, Dixon."

"Thanks. Go to the drug store down the block and call up the Bankers Protective Association in the city. You'll find their number in the directory. Tell them what's happened--that will be enough. I want you to call their New York headquarters. That will start them on the job through their branches in short order."

"Right-oh!" his friend agreed. "And when I get through with New York, I'll see what New Canaan can do to fix your phone here."

"Thanks. I'll appreciate it."

"Anything I can do, Mr. Dixon?" inquired Bill.

"Nothing here, thanks. But if you will take my daughter home and see that she doesn't get into any more trouble today, I'll be much obliged to you."

"Oh, _Dad_!" Dorothy, threw him a reproachful look, then stood on tiptoe and kissed her parent's cheek. "There, there. I know you're worried. Phone me when you want the car. I'll have sandwiches and coffee waiting when you get home."

Mr. Dixon gave her an affectionate hug. "You're a good little housewife," he praised, "but run along now--both of you. There are a million-odd things to be done before I can leave."

He beckoned to the cashier and disappeared with him into the vault.

"Not that way, Bill--" Dorothy's voice arrested Bill as he started for the door. "Come out the back way."

"What's up?"

"I don't know yet. But I've found something that the rest seem to have missed. It may be important--come and see."

"You're on, Miss Sherlock," he said. Catching her arm, he hurried with her toward the rear of the bank.

_Chapter VII_

GROUND TRAILS

Bill unlatched the back door of the bank, pushed it open and stood aside for Dorothy to pass through.

"Wait a minute." She put out a restraining hand. The full glare of the arc light in the alley fell on the damp ground at their feet. "Right over there are the tire marks of the holdup car. It's lucky it rained this afternoon. The prints are perfect in this mud."

"Well, that's interesting, but--"

"Oh, no. Of course they won't solve the mystery. That's what you were going to say, isn't it?" Dorothy's voice was mocking as she looked up at Bill. "But here--see these footprints? From this door to the car?" Her tone was triumphant now. "They ought to help just a little, don't you think?"

But Bill seemed unmoved at her discovery. "Probably hoofmarks of the cops," he said rather disparagingly.

Dorothy laughed. "If those footprints were made by policemen I'll eat them. Where are your eyes, Bill? The cops in this town wear regulation broad-toed shoes. When I heard the traffic cop tell Dad that he'd seen the robbers' car go up the alley, I dashed out here to have a look around. And as soon as I saw these prints I knew they were not made by broad-toed boots. Let's examine them closer."

Taking care to avoid stepping on the well defined trail that led from the door to the tire marks of the car, the two studied the line of footprints.

"One fellow wore rubber soled shoes--I guess you're right, Dorothy," acknowledged Bill, squatting on his heels. "The pattern on this set of prints could have been made by nothing else. But what do you make of these tracks here? Just holes in the mud with a flat dab right ahead?"

"High heeled shoes, Bill. One of this gang is a woman, that is clear enough. What bothers me is the third set--look!"

Bill stared at the footprints to which she pointed. "The right-hand one was made by a long, narrow shoe, but I'll swear that boot last was never made in America. It's too pointed," he said finally. "The shoe that made that imprint was bought in southern Europe, I'll bet--Italy, probably. But those queer looking marks to the left are beyond me," he frowned. Then he cried--"No, they're not! I have it--the man who made those prints was club-footed!"

Dorothy disagreed with him. "A club-foot couldn't make that mark. It is too symmetrical--straight on both sides and kind of rounded at the back and front. It wasn't made by a wooden leg, either, Bill!"

"No. That would simply dig a hole in the mud."

"Oh, I know! Why didn't I see it at once!" she exclaimed excitedly--"The man was lame!"

Bill snorted. "And he had long pink whiskers which he tied round his waist with a green ribbon!"

"Don't be silly--I know what I'm talking about."

"How so?"

"I _know_ that a lame man made that set of marks."

"Very well. May Doctor Watson inquire on what Miss Sherlock Holmes bases her astounding deduction?"

"On those queer marks, of course, stupid!"

"Thanks. The clouds have vanished. You make everything so lucid." Bill stood erect once more.

"But, Bill--did you ever see a lame man--whose left leg was shorter than his right?"

"Maybe I did. But I can't swear at this distant date which leg was the shorter."

"Well, I can tell you that in this case, the left was!"

"Maybe--"

"Maybe nothing! Why am I sure of it? Because the man wore a lame man's boot--the kind with a very thick sole. My grandfather wore one. He twisted his hip when he was a boy and that leg didn't grow as long as the other. What is more, he always walked on the _sole_ of his big boot--the heel never touched the ground!"

"I believe you _are_ right," mused the young man, studying one of the queer footprints again.

"I know I am, Bill. That kind of a shoe would make exactly that print. Not such a bad hunch to take a look out here, was it?"

"You're a swell sleuth, Dorothy. Let's see. Now we know there were three in the gang this evening. The chap who played chauffeur and wore sneakers, a woman, and a lame man--probably an Italian."

"Yes. But that doesn't solve the mystery, does it?"

"No, but it helps a lot. How about the tire tracks?"

"Not our car. Daddy uses Silvertowns and those were made by some other kind."

"Goodyears, I should say. How about going in now and telling your father what we've learned?"

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind?"

"Why!"

"Well, you see, Bill, Dad hasn't much confidence in girls' views on what he calls 'the practical side of life'--mine especially. There'll soon be a bunch of detectives on this case. If they find out for themselves, it's O.K. with me--but I shan't tell them."

"You want to work up the case yourself?"

"That's exactly it. If you'll help me?"

"Certainly I will. But we may get into trouble--I mean it is likely to be dangerous work."

"Does that bother you?"

"I'd hate to have you get hurt--"

"I won't do anything on my own without telling you first. We'll work together. Does that suit your highness?"

"You bet! Where do we go from here?"

"Back to my house. We'll go down the alley and hop in your car. I want to ride up to our garage. I've got another hunch."

"The kid's clever," remarked Bill admiringly. "Want to tell me? I haven't a glimmer."

They turned out of the alley into Main Street before Dorothy answered.

"Suppose you guess," she suggested teasingly as she stepped into the car. "Or, better still, now that you've become my aviation instructor, I'll even things up and give you a short course in sleuthing."

"That's a go, teacher," grinned Bill. The car rolled up the hill past the white Memorial Cross on the village green. "But to a mere amateur in crime it looks as though you had barged into a pretty good mystery, no kidding."

"Sh--" commanded Dorothy. "Sherlock Holmes is thinking."

"Don't strain anything," Bill advised as he stepped on the accelerator.

Dorothy did not retort to this thrust, but remainder wrapped in her thoughts for the remainder of the ride. Bill turned the car into the Dixon's drive before she spoke again.

"Keep on to the garage, please."

"Right-oh! Still sleuthing, I take it?"

"Yes."

"What _is_ the big idea?"

"Wait and see."

He drew up under the arching elms with the glare of their headlights focussed upon the closed garage doors. Dorothy sprang out and ran forward.

"Locked," she affirmed, giving the handle a tug. "Wait a minute, Bill. I'll be right back." She disappeared in the direction of the house.

Bill shut off the engine and clambered down to the ground. Presently he saw her coming back, accompanied by a woman in maid's cap and apron.

"All right, Lizzie," her young mistress said, "I want to look at something first. Then you can tell us exactly what happened. That's right, give me the key."

She swung open one of the wide doors.

"The Packard's there, just as I told you, Miss Dorothy," volunteered Lizzie as the three stepped inside the garage. "It's your car that's missing."

"I left it at the beach club--" Dorothy cut herself short. "The license plates are gone from the Packard!"

"Wasn't that to be expected after what the cop told us in the bank?" There was a hint of mockery in Bill's voice.

"Of course. But the point is--were they taken this afternoon while Daddy had the car parked behind the bank--or later this evening after he drove home? He would never remember whether he drove from the bank with the plates still attached or not. He never notices details like that."

Bill seemed amused. "Perhaps not--but what's the difference?"

"Wait a minute. You'll soon get another slant. Now, Lizzie--start from the very beginning."

Lizzie spoke up eagerly. "Yes, miss. Cook and me was havin' our supper in the kitchen, miss--"

"Where was Arthur?--He's our chauffeur-gardener," explained Dorothy to Bill.

"It's Arthur's night off, miss. He went to the movies--said he'd get a bite at the lunch wagon in the village, though why a man should want to eat hot dogs and such trash with honest-to-goodness vittles waiting for him at home is more than--"

"Never mind that now, Lizzie.--You and cook were eating supper--?"

"Yes, miss. We was just finishin' when we heard a car pass the house on its way out to the garage. I thought it might be Arthur, back in the Ford for some supper. Cook said--"

"Oh, Lizzie, please! What happened then?"

"Why, a man came to the back door and asked for the key to the garage. Said as how he had orders to fix the Packard."

"What time was that?"

"About five minutes after we heard the car drive out here, miss."

"No--I mean the time of day."

"I couldn't rightly say, Miss Dorothy. The kitchen clock is down to Whipple's being mended. But it was just after you'd gone over to Mr. Bolton's for dinner."

"What did the man look like, Lizzie?"

"Like any young man, miss."

"But was he tall or short?"

"Kind of medium-like--"

"Dark hair or light?"

"I can't seem to remember--he had a chauffeur's cap on and was in his shirt sleeves, that I do know."

"Did you notice if he limped?"

"No, he didn't, miss--but the other fellow did--him with the big boot."

"Bull's eye!" cried Bill. "You're sure some detective, Dorothy!"

"Keep still?" ordered that young lady. And then to the housemaid: "We'll take up the man with the big boot in a minute, Lizzie. Now then, you gave the other one the garage key, I s'pose?"

Lizzie snorted. "That I didn't, miss. I took the key off the hook and walked out to the garage with him. Mr. Dixon wouldn't be thankin' me to let strange men fool round in the garage by theirselves!"

"Then how in thunder did they cop the license plates without your seeing them?" exploded Bill.

"Do shut up and let me talk!" Dorothy stamped her foot impatiently. "Now, Lizzie, what happened next?"

"Well, miss, I unlocked the doors and he started tinkerin' with the engine of the Packard there. Then all of a sudden he went out to the other car and spoke to somebody inside."

"What car was that?"

"The one he'd drove up in. It was parked out on the drive where the young gentleman has his'n now."

"Another Packard, was it?"

"I couldn't say, miss. I didn't pay much attention to it, except that it was a closed car--and there was a man and a woman in back."

Dorothy exchanged glances with Bill. "And then?"

"Then the young feller comes back and says as how the lady in the car was feeling sick, and could I fetch her a glass of water with a teaspoonful of bicarbonate of soda in it. I knew we had some in the medicine chest upstairs, so--"

"So you went back to the house and got it?"

"Yes, miss."

"And _that's_ when they copped the plates!" declared Bill, the irrepressible.

"Bull's eye!" derided Dorothy. "How'd you guess it?"

"Form of genius some of us have."

Dorothy ignored this last and turned again to the maid. "What happened when you brought back the bicarb, Lizzie?"

"I give it to the young lady in the car, miss."

"Young, was she?"

"I couldn't get a good look at her face, for she was dabbin' her eyes with a handkerchief like she'd been cryin'. But she was dressed in some of those new-fangled pajamas like you wear to the beach, they was--sort of yellow-green color--and a wisp of her hair that had got loose from the bandanna she wore was red--the brightest red hair I ever see. She turned her head away when she drunk the medicine, but she thanked me prettily enough when she handed back the glass."

"Have you washed it yet?"

"No, miss. You see, I--"

"Then don't. I want that glass, just as it is. Was the lame man sitting beside her?"

"No. When I brought her the soda he was comin' out of the garage with the other fellow. He was carryin' a package wrapped in newspaper and he says as how he was takin' some part of the engine back to the shop. He spoke kind of funny, like a foreigner, I thought. And all dolled up in a light suit and a cane. Why, he'd even got lemon colored gloves on for all his lameness and the big boot he wore!"

"Did the girl and the other man wear gloves?"

"The man put them on when he started to tinker with the car, I remember. But the girl had no gloves on."

"You're sure?"

"Oh, yes, miss, because I noticed her shiny pink finger nails, particular. I thought at the time that washin' dishes couldn't be no part of her life."

"That's fine, Lizzie. You make a splendid witness."

"Thanks, miss. I got a good look at the lame man, too. He had a funny little black mustache like they wear in the movies and little gold knobs in his ears--what do think of _that_!" Lizzie paused dramatically as she gave this choice bit of information.

"Earrings?"

"Earrings, miss--and--"

"Thank you, Lizzie. You may go now."

"Remember those earrings, miss. And I'll keep the glass for you, and won't let cook touch it either, never fear!" Lizzie's slight figure faded into the darkness.

"So you've got pretty good descriptions of the gang _and_ the lady's fingerprints!" Bill summed up. "I've got to hand it to you, kid. Reckon you'll have to let your father know about it though. Those fingerprints will have to be examined by the police."

Dorothy nodded. "Guess you're right. I'll tell him what we found out."

"What _you've_ found out, you mean. As I think I told you before, when it comes to detective work, I'm a ground hog!"

"Nonsense! But that reminds me, Bill. Do I get a lesson tomorrow?"

"Do you think you can take time enough from your life work?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You may think I've finished fooling with this robbery when I turn over the dope to Daddy--but I haven't. I want a flying lesson, just the same, in the morning. Shall we go up in the _Loening_ again?"

"No. I'll drive you down to the shore and we'll take the _N-9_ out. Don't wait for your father to-night. Tell him what you want to at breakfast."

"But I've got to--"

"This is your flight instructor speaking, Dorothy. No lesson in the morning for you, young lady, unless you go straight to bed now and get a good night's rest. A clear head and steady nerves are the first requisites for flying."

"All right then. I'll turn in directly. Good night."

Bill was already seated behind the wheel of his car. "Good night, Dorothy. By the way, _I've_ got a hunch about this bank business. After you've had some flight training we'll investigate together--and the plane will be a great asset," he added mysteriously. His foot pressed the self-starter.

"Don't be so vague--spill the news like a good fellow."

"Sh--" mocked Bill. "'Sherlock Holmes is thinking!'" His laugh rang out and the car disappeared in the deep shadows of the drive.

"He's not so dumb as he pretends," mused Miss Dixon. "What can he have up his sleeve?"

Slowly she moved off toward the back door of the house.

_Chapter VIII_

NEXT MORNING

"You've done splendidly, my dear. I'm proud of you. This information you've dug up will be a lot of help in tracing that gang, I'm sure."

Dorothy and her father were seated at the table, taking their morning meal in the breakfast porch, just off the dining room. Although the bond of affection uniting father and daughter was a strong one, especially since the mother's death some years earlier, neither was particularly demonstrative. And Dorothy was not used to receiving unstinted praise of this sort from her father. The colour in her cheeks deepened, and she said off-handedly:

"I'm awfully glad, Daddy. You haven't had your second cup of coffee, have you?"

Mr. Dixon smiled, and passed his cup to her. His shrewd glance took in her evident embarrassment.

"No need to dissemble, daughter. Fact is, I keep forgetting you're no longer a child; and I don't mind telling you how valuable you are to me."

Dorothy smiled back at him. "Thanks a lot, Dad." She returned his filled cup. "Did the gang get away with much?"

"Plenty. A number of easily negotiable bonds, what currency we had on hand, etc. Of course, we're well covered by insurance--but the worst of it is, they took Mrs. Hamberfield's diamond necklace!"

"What! The Hamberfields, of Canoe Hill?"

"The same. They bought the old Adams place two years ago and keep it for a summer residence. More money there than--er--taste, I believe. Mrs. H. goes in for jewels on a big scale."

"Wears diamonds at breakfast, I'll bet, Daddy. She came to the Country Club last Saturday night, dressed up to the hilt and beyond it. I've never seen so much jewelry! Doug Parsons suggested that she'd been robbing Tiffany's. A regular ice-wagon with her diamonds!"

"Well, she's lost a lot of them, now. That gang evidently knew she had a habit of keeping some of them in her deposit box at the bank, for it was the only one they raided."

"That's interesting."

"In what way?"

"Never mind now. Tell me some more."

"Well, naturally, I phoned the lady last night--and well--she was most unpleasant--"

"The nasty cat! Serves her right to have them stolen!"

"Hardly that, dear. But the bank is responsible for her necklace and other gewgaws. And her husband is a power in the financial world."

Having breakfasted sufficiently for one day, Dorothy was busy with an orange lipstick.

"More unpleasantness for you, Daddy?" she asked through pursed lips, her eyes on the small mirror of her compact, open on the table before her.

"He is in a position to do the bank considerable harm--By the way, Dorothy, are you as efficient at manicuring as you are at making up your mouth?"

"P-perhaps. Why?"

"Good. Then, after this I'll get you to do my nails while I have my second cup of coffee each morning!"

"Aren't you horrid!"

"Aren't you the cheeky kid, using that thing in front of me?"

"You really don't mind, Daddy?"

"Do you think it an improvement over nature?"

"I know it isn't."

"Why use a lipstick then?"

"But--why do you wear that curly mustache?"

"More cheek?"

"Not at all. But it adds dignity to your face--what's more, your mustache is becoming and you know it."

"Nonsense!" Mr. Dixon's tone was derisive but there was a twinkle in his keen gray eyes.

Dorothy nodded decisively. "While my lipstick, properly used, is also becoming," she went on. "And it gives your daughter a sophisticated appearance otherwise lacking--" she broke off with a giggle as she saw her father's expression.

Dorothy snapped her compact shut and rose from the table. Going round to his side, she gave her father a hug and kissed him lightly on his mustache. "There!" she laughed. "Now I've added sophistication to your dignity, Daddy. You'll be able to run both the bank and that ritzy Mrs. Hamberfield like a charm today. So long! Bill is coming for me and we're going down to the beach. I'm to have my first real flight instruction this morning, you know."

"From all accounts you did pretty well yesterday, young lady. Don't you think you'd better come down to the bank and tell the story of your sleuthing to the Bankers' Association detectives? They'll be up here from New York this morning."

From the doorway, Dorothy shook her head. "Nothing doing!" she cried. "I love you a lot--but you have the story down pat yourself--and I've got a date I can't break. That glass with the fingerprints on it, you'll find nicely wrapped up on the hall table. 'By--" She was through the door and across the lawn before Mr. Dixon could reply.

He folded his napkin and laid it on the table with a sigh. "Heigho!" he murmured. "I wonder what her mother would say to that? Still, Dorothy grows more like her every day. The youngster has brains if she only uses them in the right way. She certainly has been a help on this robbery--and she is a comfort to me--but a great responsibility at that."

Then, carefully lighting his after-breakfast cigar, Mr. Dixon walked into the house.

Shortly after Mr. Dixon had left for the bank, Bill's horn honked in the drive.

Dorothy appeared presently, wearing a boy's outing shirt open at the neck and a pair of fawn-colored jodhpurs. She noticed as she approached the car that Frank, the Bolton's chauffeur, was seated in the rumble.

"I've got to run into New York and buy some flying clothes," she announced as she seated herself at Bill's side.

"Don't bother about clothes, for heaven's sake. They won't help you to fly. I've got several extra helmets and some goggles and those things you're wearing now will be just the thing. All you need are overalls--and I bought you those in the village this morning."

"Aren't you nice," she beamed. "But I do need a leather coat, don't I?"

"What for?"

"Didn't you tell me the cockpits of your N-9 were open--that they didn't have windshields?"

"Yes--but what of it?"

"Won't it be cold?"

"Not at this time of year. We're not out for an altitude record. Of course, when you get a couple of miles or so above the earth you have to bundle up--but the old OXX motor in my N-9 would never get you there. She's not built for that kind of work. Later on, you can order a monkey suit or a leather coat from the city."

"Yes, I'll get one of those sporty knee-length coats--" decided Dorothy gleefully.

"Not if I know it!"

"But why not? They're so goodlooking!"

"And more dangerous than a broken strut!"

"They are?" Dorothy's tone was horrified.

"Certainly. If you buy a coat, get a waist-length model. Anything longer not only hampers a pilot, it catches the wind and is likely to get caught around your stick or other controls and crash the plane."

"Oh!" said Dorothy disappointedly.

Bill slanted his eyes from the road and smiled at her. "Not everyone who wears a yachting cap is a yachtsman! You'll have plenty to think of during your flight training without bothering about such things."

"I guess you're right," she agreed. "How long will it take to teach me to fly, Bill?"

"It all depends upon your aptitude, Dorothy. Ask me again after ten hours of dual instruction. But no matter how apt you prove to be, flying is not learned in a day. I've mapped out a forty-hour course for you. Want to look it over?" He handed her a typewritten sheet.

She studied the paper interestedly. It was titled.

"Course of Flight Training.

I. _Dual Instruction._

First hour Taxiing
Straight flying
Turns
Glides

Second Take-offs
Climbing
S-turns
Breaking Glide and leveling off
Slow motion landings by instructor

Third Flying at leveling-off height
(seaplanes only)
Slow motion landings
Normal landings, use of elevators only

Fourth Cut-gun landings, under three feet,
elevators only

Sixth Normal landings
Cut-gun landings
Spirals
Use of ailerons, rudder, throttle
Approaches
Elementary forced landings

Ninth Stalls and spins

II. _Elementary Solo Flying._

First solo: Five minute flight, necessary turns, one landing

First 5 hours: Take-offs, turns, landings

Instruction flight: Instruction as necessary, including spins;
power stall landings (seaplanes only)

5 to 10 hours: Take-offs, turns, spirals, landings

Instruction flight: Instruction as necessary, including spins

10-15 hours: Same as 5 to 10 hours

III. _Advanced Flying._

Instruction flight: Reverse control turns and spirals, side-slips,
power spins

15-20 hours: Take-offs, turns, spirals, landings; reverse control
turns and spirals

Instruction flight--Acrobatics

20-25 hours: Acrobatics, with 20 minutes of each hour on elementary
work

Instruction flight: Precision landings, forced landings,
figure-eight turns, wing-overs

25-30 hours: Precision landings, forced landings, figure-eight
turns, wing-overs

Final instructions flight: Review; instruction as necessary."

"Looks pretty complicated to me," sighed Dorothy, handing back the paper. "Gee, but there's a lot to learn!"

"More than the average novice has any idea of. But don't imagine that this course will make you or anyone else an experienced pilot. Additional time must be spent in the air before you can get an interstate commercial pilot's license. But after the instruction I've outlined here, your knowledge of flying should be sufficient to enable you to go on with your training yourself."

"I hope so," said Dorothy, but there was little confidence in her tone.

Bill brought the car to a stop beside an open field.

"Cheer up!" he encouraged. "Flying is like anything else worth while--troublesome to learn, but easy enough when you know how. Hop out, kid. There's the N-9, with her new landing gear, over there. Frank will take the car back. We'll fly up to my place now and I'll give you your first real instruction over our own flying field!"

_Chapter IX_

AIR TRAILS

Dorothy donned her overalls while Bill spoke to the mechanic who was waiting by the plane. Then the man got into a car and drove away, and Bill beckoned her to him.

"All set?"

"All set."

"Then we'll begin. First of all, you must know the names of the different parts of the plane. Some you know already, but we'll go over them just the same. That hinged movable auxiliary surface on the trailing edge of the wing is an aileron. Its primary function is to impress a rolling movement on the airplane. Got that?"

"Yes."

"Then repeat what I just said."

Dorothy did so.

"Good. Now this is a drag wire."

After twenty minutes of this kind of thing he asked her to point out an aileron and explain its use.

"K.O." he said at last. "We'll go over parts each day for a while and the book work you must do at home will help to refresh your memory. Now nip into the forward cockpit and I'll explain the working of the controls."

He gave Dorothy a hand up and when she was seated, swung himself on to the cowl of the cockpit.

"First of all--and let this become habit--" he ordered, "adjust your safety belt. Yes, that's the way. Now we'll go ahead. That's the stick there. Take hold of it. You'll notice it is pivoted at its base. Forward movement of the stick increases the angle of attack of the elevators and depresses the nose. Backward movement decreases angle and raises the nose. Lateral movement of the stick operates the ailerons, movement to the right depressing the right wing, and to the left, the left wing."

When she was sure she understood the functions of one thing he explained the next.

"Now tell me just what I have told you--" he commanded.

Fully an hour had gone by before he was satisfied that she understood thoroughly.

"Tired?" he asked at last.

"Not a bit," she smiled. "I'm afraid I'm kind of dumb--but all these gadgets, as you call them, are a little confusing at first."

"Oh, you're catching on in first rate order," he told her. "Nothing but practice will make you letter perfect. And that comes soon enough when you handle the plane yourself. Now I'll fly us home. All I want you to do is to fold your arms and listen. Keep your eyes in the cockpit and watch the movements of the stick and rudder bar. My cockpit aft is equipped with similar controls. When I move my stick--yours moves--and vice versa. All right?"

"You bet."

He reached in his pocket and drew forth a small leather-bound book which he handed her.

"Here's your Flight Log Book, Dorothy. Write it up after every flight. There are columns for the date, type of plane, duration and character of flight, passengers or crew carried (if any) and remarks. A commercial pilot should have his log book certified monthly by an official of the company. For a student it is a good thing to commence during training. Stick it in your pocket," he advised as she thanked him. "And put on this helmet. It's a Gosport, with phones in both ear flaps, connected by a voice tube to this mouthpiece. I'll use that end of it to coach you through during flight."

"But this helmet is hard and stiff," objected Dorothy. "I'll bet it isn't nearly as comfortable as that nice soft leather one you're wearing."

"Possibly not. But until you're through with your instruction I want you to wear a 'crash' helmet. They're a lot of protection for the head in case of minor accident. No instructor worth his salt permits a student to use a soft leather helmet until you've had a lot of experience."

"Oh, very well then," she said, adjusting her heavy headgear, "you're the boss!"

"You bet I am when it comes to this kind of thing. If I weren't sure you were willing to give me strict obedience, I'd never propose teaching you. And please remember that this isn't a joy hop. The more attentive you are to instruction--the quicker you'll learn."

"I'm your willing slave, sir," she mocked good-humoredly, and drew the helmet strap tight beneath her chin.

Then as the engine roared and the plane rolled forward she felt the same thrill she had experienced the afternoon before when she and Bill had taken off in the amphibian. The same tightening of her muscles and beating throb of the pulse in her neck. They were soaring upward now and the sensation of smoothness became apparent after the jars and bumps of taxiing over the rough field. The sting of the wind on her face was exhilarating, but her eyes were streaming. Realizing that she had forgot to adjust her goggles, she pulled them down from the front of her helmet.

"I've been wondering how long it would be before you did that," came Bill's voice through the headphones. "Never mind--it's a grand thrill while it lasts--you'll lose it soon enough."

Dorothy, for the first time in her life, found a retort impossible to make.

"Now that we've got enough air under us," Bill's voice continued, "I'm going to fly straight for home. Remember what I said about watching your stick and rudder bar. Also keep an eye on the bank-and-turn indicator as well as the fore and aft level indicator and inclinometer."

Dorothy shifted her gaze to the instrument board before her. Unconsciously she ticked off the other instruments. There were the two Bill had just mentioned; a magneto switch, oil pressure gauge, earth inductor, compass indicator, altimeter, 8-day clock, primary pump and tachometer. It pleased her that she could so readily recall their names and uses. Then she heard Bill's voice in her ear again:

"The reason that I keep pulling the stick back slightly so often, Dorothy, in level flight, is because the old bus is a bit nose heavy. You'll notice it when you handle her later on. It's nothing to worry about. Very few planes are perfectly balanced."

Dorothy turned her eyes guiltily on the stick again. She had been caught napping that time! One really needed half a dozen pairs of eyes for a job like this. And--how different Bill's manner aboard an airplane, she thought. He was certainly all business. But she respected and admired his knowledge and his ability as an airpilot which left no opening for argument.

"You can look overside now," came his voice again interrupting her thoughts. "We're going to land."

Below them she saw the Bolton's house. The nose of the plane dropped suddenly as the stick went forward and they shot down to land on the field near the Bolton's hangar.

Bill spoke again from the rear cockpit. "If you're ready for more flight instruction, hold up your right hand."

Dorothy held up her right hand.

"Good. Then we'll practice taxiing," came back the even voice. "Remember that a land plane with engine idling will remain at rest on the ground in winds of normal force. That means that all movement of the plane must be made by use of the engine. When your bus begins to move you control it primarily by using the rudder. In a wind as strong as the one blowing now, you'll notice the plane's tendency to turn into it. That's due to the effect on the tail. It tends to swing like a weathervane until the nose is headed directly toward the point of the compass from which the wind is blowing. Your experience in sailing is going to be a great help.

"Now, just one thing more and we'll shove off. While taxiing, you must hold the stick well back of neutral. That will prevent any tendency of the tail to rise and cause the plane to nose over. Grasp the stick lightly with your fingers. Never freeze onto anything. If you feel me wiggle the stick sharply--let go at once. I may or may not have my hands and feet on the controls, but you cannot know that. Act just as if you were alone in the plane. Got all that?"

Dorothy raised her hand again.

"Then snap on the ignition and get going."

For the next hour she taxied the _N-9_ around the field while Bill issued commands from the rear cockpit. So interested was she in her lesson that it seemed no time at all before he told her to shut off the engine.

"Take off your helmet and get down," he said as the plane came to a stop. And he helped her overside.

"Gee, Bill, it's wonderful!" she cried, jumping lightly to the ground beside him.

"You did splendidly," he encouraged. "This field is pretty rough in spots--makes it bumpy going. How are you--stiff?"

"Not a bit!"

"You need a rest, just the same."

"But I'm not in the least tired. Can't I go up now?"

Bill looked at her and shook his head. "Nothing doing," he said with pretended sternness. "That is--not for the next fifteen minutes. Here comes Frank with something cold to drink on his tray--horse's neck, probably. There's nothing like iced ginger ale with a string of lemon peel in it when you're real thirsty!"

"My, you're thoughtful!"

"Don't thank me--it's all Frank's idea."

They sipped their drinks in the shade of the old barn that had been turned into a hangar for the Bolton's planes.

"While you're resting, I want you to study this paper, Dorothy. It's a routine I want you to follow in preparing for every flight you take--with me, or soloing," he explained, handing it over. "When you've got it by heart, repeat it to me and then we'll carry on. Your first job for the next hop will be to do exactly what I've written there."

For perhaps ten minutes both were silent and Bill closed his eyes and turned over on his back.

"Asleep?" asked Dorothy presently.

"No--just relaxing. Got that dope down pat?"

"Sure. I mean, yes, instructor."

"Give me back the paper then, and shoot!" he said, sitting up.

"Preparations for flight:" recited Dorothy. "First, inspect the plane and engine as necessary. Second, observe the wind direction. Third, observe the course direction (if a course is being flown). Fourth, set the altimeter. Fifth, see that helmet, goggles and cushions are properly adjusted. Sixth, see that cloth to wipe goggles is handy. Seventh, give the engine a ground test. Eighth, see that the gas valve is properly set. Ninth and last--Buckle the safety belt!"

"One hundred per cent! Good work, Dot. Now come over to the plane and show me how you do it."

He grinned, awaiting a quick retort--but Dorothy, intent on the business of learning to fly, walked at his side in a fit of concentration.

"She sure is keen," he said to himself. "I never got a rise--and 'Dot,' to Dorothy, is like waving the American flag at a Mexican bull!"

Dorothy continued to prove her aptitude for she went through the flight preparations with but one mistake. She entirely forgot the matter of the cloth to wipe her goggles!

Presently he took her up again and started in with his coaching.

"You now have thirty-five hundred feet registered on your altimeter," he announced through her phone. "Enough air below to get us out of trouble if we should happen to get into it. The higher one flies, the safer one is. Now you are going to get straight flight instruction. I am moving the stick backward--now forward--now backward--now forward. See how the nose of the plane rises and falls in response? Watch closely--I'm going to do it again. There, now--take the stick and do it yourself."

Dorothy did as he bade her. It was thrilling to feel the huge plane respond to her will.

Then followed instruction in moving the stick successively right and left by which means the right wing and then the left are correspondingly depressed. After that came rudder instruction. First Bill pushed the right and left sides of the rudder bar successively, forward, thereby swerving the nose first to the right and then to the left.

Dorothy, of course repeated these movements after him.

Then he explained that to hold a steady course, to fly straight, constant right rudder must be maintained to overcome the torque, or drag of the propeller blades tending to swing the nose to the left. While to fly level longitudinally, some point on the engine is kept in line with the horizon. That to fly level laterally, up aileron and opposite rudder are applied whenever a wing drops. He told her numerous other things, such as that when flying straight, the nose should frequently be dropped momentarily, or the course changed a few degrees in order to look ahead. Otherwise, an approaching plane may be hidden by the engine.

"Good night!" thought Dorothy as she strained her ears to catch every word, while she watched the controls and saw how the plane reacted to their manipulation by her instructor. "If it takes all this detail to fly straight and level, I'll get the heebie-jeebies when it comes to acrobatics!"

"Take over controls," came Bill's voice. "Fly straight for that white church tower on the horizon."

Dorothy's body stiffened, but she took hold of the stick again bravely enough, and placed her feet on the rudder bar at the same time. She could feel her temples throbbing, and her heart was beating faster than the clock on her instrument board. At last she was actually flying an airplane--all by herself. But was she? Suddenly there came a check in the forward speed of the plane and Dorothy felt it start to slew off sideways as the nose dropped.

Then before she knew exactly what was happening, the stick in her hand seemed to spring back, then to the right, while right rudder increased considerably without help from her foot. Up came the nose, followed by the left wing, and down went the right. The slewing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Then she felt left aileron and left rudder being applied--and once more the N-9 was flying straight and level.

"Forgot what I said about checking a skid just now, didn't you?" said Bill's voice in her ear. "Here's the news again. Any swinging of the nose to the left can be promptly recognized and checked--but,--and here's where you went wrong--the nose cannot be swung back to the right without applying a small bank. Any attempt to do so will cause your plane to skid. That naturally results in a loss of flying speed forward and the heavier end drops. If not checked at once, it means going into a spin. Carry on again now, and please try to keep your wits about you. This is not a kiddie-car. Mistakes are apt to be costly!"

Dorothy bit her lips in anger. More than ever did she regret the lack of a mouth piece on her head phone. Her temper flared at his sharp tone, and what seemed to her unfair criticism so early in the game. But she took over again as he ordered and gradually her vexation disappeared in her effort to concentrate every faculty on the job of flying the plane and keeping to her course. She was gradually gaining confidence. She made the same maneuvers which had caused the skid before, and carried through perfectly.

Bill told her so in no stinted terms, and the last shreds of her anger disappeared.

"The man who put _me_ over the bumps," he added, "always said: 'when a student aviator makes a mistake, give him blazes--make him mad. He'll remember what he should have done all the better--and live longer!' That advice applies to either sex, Dorothy. Naturally, I hope you'll live to a ripe old age."

Dorothy liked him for this apology. She wanted to thank him but of course that was out of the question.

"I'll take her over now." She heard his even tones once more, above the engine's roar. "Time for lunch. This afternoon, if you like, we'll take up another end of this business. And you can get even by teaching me how to become an honest-to-goodness sleuthhound!"

_Chapter X_

THE MEETING

After lunch Dorothy and Bill established themselves comfortably in the shade of the terrace awning back of the Bolton's house, and Dorothy's ground training began.

"First of all," said her instructor, "you must learn the signals for maneuvers, such as when the stick is shaken laterally, one hand held up, it means control of the plane is resumed by the instructor. Opening the throttle in a glide means resume level flight. There are eight of these signals to memorize. Then there are eight correction signals as well."

"I'll get them down soon enough," his pupil assured him. "Is that all?"

"I should say not. That's just a starter. Your ground training will consist of three parts: theoretic training, which takes up principles of flight; aircraft construction, aviation engine construction; and the elements of meteorology. Next, practical training, which embraces the maintenance and repair of aircraft together with maintenance and repair of aviation engines. Then comes aviation procedure, which takes up air commerce regulations; instruction procedure (signals come under that) and precautions and general instructions."

"Whew!" whistled Dorothy in dismay. "It _is_ a business!"