Chapter III: Part 3

Bill laughed at her forlorn expression. "Cheer up--the first hundred years are the hardest. But seriously, to become an efficient air pilot, it is essential to know thoroughly this ground work and all of the maneuvers I listed under elementary flying. None of them can be safely omitted. Of those I included under advanced flying, acrobatics are not required for a pilot's license, but they're a grand help in developing ability to handle a plane with confidence. Proficiency in reverse control flying, precision landings with power, forced landings and cross country flying is required for an interstate commercial license--and vital for every pilot."

"Is _that_ all?" asked Dorothy, with diminished enthusiasm.

"No. To become a real flyer, you must understand aerial navigation and pass off formation flying and night flying. It sounds like a lot--but it really isn't so difficult. Of course, if you don't _want_ to go the whole way--"

"Oh, but I do, Bill," she said earnestly. "It's only that I never dreamed there was so much to be learned. It kind of takes my breath away--"

"You mustn't let that bother you. I'm glad you're going to do the thing up right, though. It will take a lot of your time--but you'll find it worth your while. Let's get busy now. We'll start on signals. Then later this afternoon you can go up again if you feel like it."

For the next two weeks Dorothy worked daily with Bill. By the end of that time she had completed her elementary solo flying and was now engrossed in mastering the difficulties of reverse control.

Bill realized after giving her two or three lessons, that his pupil showed a high degree of aptitude for flying. Their trip home in the amphibian after the wreck of the _Scud_, had proved pretty conclusively to him that this sixteen-year-old girl had an unusually cool and stable temperament. Ordinarily, flight training is inadvisable for anyone under eighteen years of age, and Bill knew that twenty years is preferable. For, ordinarily, the instinctive coordination between sensory organs and muscles, which is necessary toward the control of a plane in the air, does not develop earlier. An airplane must be kept moving or it will fall; and the processes of reason are far too slow to keep up with the exigencies of flight. Flying cannot be figured out like a problem in mathematics. Calculation won't do the trick--there isn't enough time for it.

Of course there are exceptions to this rule. Bill Bolton was one himself, and Dorothy, he knew, was another.

When Mr. Dixon questioned him as to Dorothy's progress, he gave him a list of the maneuvers that had already been mastered, and the approximate length of time she had taken to satisfy him in performance.

"But that doesn't mean a thing to me--" objected the older man. "Look here--I was talking to a friend of mine who is an old Royal Flying Corps man. He said that Dorothy should wait several years before training. How about it? I know your reputation as a flyer, and I've proved my confidence in you by trusting you with my daughter's life. Why is it better for her to start now, rather than later?"

"Do you play the violin, sir?"

"No ear for music." Mr. Dixon shook his head in reminiscence. "My father played well. It was his ambition that we play duets together. But after wasting money for two years on lessons for me, he gave it up. My! the sounds I made when I practiced! It must have been torture to him. I can't tell one note from another--but I remember how awful it was. But what has _that_ got to do with Dorothy's flying?"

"A good deal. You couldn't play the violin because you are not musical, and only a musical person can learn to play it well. In some respects, mastery of the violin and mastery of flying, have a common bond. With both the one fundamental requirement is natural or instinctive aptitude. Flying is an art, and without natural ability it is useless to attempt it. And if it isn't inherent, Mr. Dixon, it just can't be acquired. Moreover, the only way to find out if that aptitude exists, is by trial. If Dorothy had the natural ability for the violin that she has for flying, practice and experience would make her a second Kreisler!"

A smile crept along the corners of Mr. Dixon's mouth. "Ah, but Kreisler is a _man_!"

"I know, sir, but honestly, sex has nothing to do with it."

"So you think she should keep on with her flight training?"

"I _know_ she should, Mr. Dixon, if you want her to fly at all. She has all the qualifications that go toward making a really _good_ air pilot."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say it, and glad you're so enthusiastic."

"Of course I am," declared Bill. "She's fearless and alert and she loves the work--she'll do well."

And so Dorothy continued her flight training.

She came down one afternoon from a solo flight and Bill, who had been watching her maneuvers from the shade of the hangar, walked over as the plane rolled to a stop.

"Not so good--" she called out as she sprang to the ground. "I nearly overshot my landing."

"So I noticed," returned her young instructor rather grimly. "Carelessness, you know, that's all. Keep your mind on the job. And here's something else. Remember, when you are making a flipper turn, the nose must first be dropped to level. Otherwise you'll get into serious trouble. Also don't forget that until the wings pass an angle of bank of 45 degrees your controls are not inverted and must be handled as in a normal turn."

"O.K. skipper," she sighed. "I'll remember in future."

"One thing more. Those two 360-degree spirals with an altitude loss of about 1000 feet were well done. But you must bring your plane out of reverse control spirals above 1500 feet altitude--Now we'll put your bus away and call it a day."

Work finished, they strolled over to the terrace where Frank as usual had iced drinks awaiting them.

"You've certainly taught me a lot in fourteen days," observed Dorothy after sipping her ginger ale. "But it's kind of put a crimp into our detective work. By the way, you never have told me what you had up your sleeve with regard to the robbery--something to do with an airplane coming in handy, wasn't it?"

"Your memory is better on the ground than in the air!"

"Pish! likewise, tush! You don't intend to wait till I finish training or anything like that, before coming across with that clue that will help us land those birds in jail?"

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Thought maybe you might figure my interest in landing the gang would take my mind off flying--"

Bill took a long, refreshing drink of the iced liquid at his elbow. "You're on the wrong track. I'm simply biding my time and keeping a finger on the pulse of the robbery, as it were."

"Do you mean that?"

"I'm in deadly earnest," he assured her, although his eyes twinkled mischievously.

"Then all I can say," exclaimed Dorothy, "is that you're one up on everybody else who is working on the case."

"How come?"

"Why? you know as well as I do that when the Packard rolled out of the alley by the bank, in all probability carrying three people and the loot, it disappeared completely. And it's stayed that way ever since, hasn't it? That's two weeks ago tonight."

"Any new clues lately?"

"Nary a one. The police traced the red-headed girl's finger prints to Sarah Martinelli, better known as Staten Island Sadie. They sent Dad her record--I saw it--believe me, that lady is a ripe egg!"

"How beautifully expressive."

Dorothy raised her eyes from her compact's tiny mirror.

"Well, she must be!--Are you trying to kid me?"

Bill finished his ginger ale. "Come on, tell me the rest."

Dorothy grinned. "That's all there is, there isn't any more, my child. Don't imagine those police are efficient, do you? None of the missing bonds have been found, and as for the money, those chaps have probably spent it by this time. I feel awfully sorry for Daddy, though," she continued in a changed voice, "--that Mrs. Hamberfield is still raising the roof about her diamond necklace. Serves her right for being such a mutt, I say."

"Tough on both parties, I should think."

"Nothing of the kind. Daddy says that her husband, Stonington Hamberfield, made his coin profiteering during the war. What do you think his name really is?"

"You tell me."

"Steinburg Hammerfeld--isn't that a hot one?"

"A Hun, eh?"

"Well, if he isn't--I'm President Hindenburg, San Francisco Harbor and the Statue of Liberty all in one!"

Bill smiled appreciatively at this sally, then changed the subject. "Let's go to the movies this evening?"

"Can't. It's Pen and Pencil Club night."

"What on earth is that?"

"Oh, about a year ago, a bunch of us at high school, girls and fellows, started a club to write short stories. We meet every other Tuesday night at some member's house. Everybody has to write a story at least one a month, or they're fined a quarter. We read aloud and discuss them at the meeting. Come with me after supper and pay my quarter."

"Nothing doing. That kind of thing is my idea of a perfectly terrible evening."

Dorothy slipped the compact into a pocket of her jodhpurs and got to her feet.

"That's where you're all wrong, Bill. Noel Sainsbury, the writer, is our adviser. He makes it awfully interesting--we have lots of fun. He was a naval aviator during the war. You two should have lots in common. Do come along and meet him."

"Why I dined at his place, Little Windows, last night!"

"Oh, you do know him?"

"Naturally. Where would I be if it weren't for him? Look at the books he's written about me. Noel Sainsbury brought Dad and me to New Canaan. We're awfully fond of him and his wife and little girl."

"Yes, Winks is a darling and Mrs. Sainsbury is a peach--" Dorothy agreed. "She comes to our meetings, too. I'm named for her, you know."

"Really? That's interesting."

"You bet. Then you'll come tonight?"

"I'd like to, very much."

"All right. The meeting is at Betty Mayo's, in White Oak Shade. I'll be here about eight in my car and drive you down there."

"I'll be ready--so long!"

"So long!"

-------------------------------------------

It was nearly quarter to nine before they got started, as things turned out. Mr. Dixon had gone to New York for the day on business, had been detained in town, and Dorothy waited dinner for him.

"Well, we won't have missed much," she explained to Bill as her car breasted the Marvin Ridge Road. "The first half hour is always taken up with the minutes of the last meeting and all that parliamentary stuff. I love driving in the twilight, anyway. Next place on the left is where we're bound. We'll be there in a jiffy."

They rounded a bend and came upon a Packard parked at the roadside. The hood was up and a man looked up from tinkering with the engine as their lights outlined his figure.

"Pull up! pull up!" Bill's tense whisper sounded in her ears. "Where are your eyes, girl?"

But Dorothy needed no second warning. She shot home the brake, for she too had seen the great, misshapen boot that the dapper little motorist wore on his left foot.

_Chapter XI_

FOLLOW THE LEADER

"Need any help?" inquired Bill, as Dorothy drew up opposite the Packard.

"Thanks! This thing has got me stumped. I'm not much of a mechanician," returned the lame man ruefully. "Do you know anything about motors?"

"Making them behave is my long suit," was Bill's glib retort as he alighted from the car and crossed the road. "Let's see if I can locate your trouble. Got plenty of gas?"

"Lots of it. I just looked to see."

"Then let me have your flashlight while I give her the once over."

"Wait a minute--" called Dorothy, "I'll swing this car round and put my lights on the engine. There--is that better?" she ended, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

"Nothing could be sweeter!" sang out Bill without turning his head. "Hold her as you are."

Dorothy's offer had not been quite so altruistic as it sounded, for now her lights brilliantly illuminated the two figures bending over the Packard's engine. While Bill went over the motor with the sureness of an expert, keeping up a desultory conversation with the stranger, Dorothy used her eyes to good advantage.

But after a while she grew impatient. Why didn't Bill capture the man at once so they could haul him off to the police station? Why did he continue to go on with his pretended inspection of the engine? He couldn't really be in earnest, for if he found the trouble and fixed it, the lame man would simply get in his car and drive away. Could it be that Bill wasn't sure of his quarry? Of course, he was clean shaven, although Lizzie had described him as having a small mustache. Naturally, he'd shave it off. By this time he must know that his description had been broadcast. And so far as she could see the earrings were missing too. But that was to be expected. And he spoke good English with a slight Italian accent.

What was the matter with Bill! He was big enough to take care of the man with one hand, when all he did was tinker and jabber. What was the use of that?

"Your engine seems to be in A-1 condition," Bill was saying. "Doesn't look as if you'd been running the car lately."

"I haven't," replied the lame man. "She ran like a charm when I drove down here earlier this evening. Then all of a sudden she stops--and won't go on."

"Ah! here we are!" Bill exclaimed a moment later. "You've got a choked jet. I'll fix that in a jiffy."

"You are very kind," beamed the Italian. "Is that a serious trouble?"

"Not so bad. Buy better gas and have your carburetor well looked over. I'll fix it so the car will move, though."

"Do you think she will run fifty miles?"

"Sure--but there are plenty of garages nearer than that if you want to fix it."

"I'll wait until I reach home. My friend--he will give the engine a thorough going over. He understands very well such things."

"Good enough." Bill straightened his back and closed the hood. "You're O.K. now. She'll run."

"Then thank you so much. You have been very kind."

"Don't mention it." Bill waved farewell and crossed the road as the lame man climbed into his car and drove off in the direction of New Canaan village.

"What ever _is_ the matter with you?" Dorothy broke out in a fever of angry disappointment. "Why didn't you nab him while you had the chance? Now he'll get away and--"

"Hush, sister! Likewise calm yourself," cut in Bill. "Move over. I'm going to drive. This business isn't finished by a long shot. It has only just begun."

Dorothy, flabbergasted by his high-handed manner, slid across the seat as he directed, and Bill sprang in behind the wheel. The tail light of the Packard disappeared around the bend of the road.

"What's the idea?" she fumed.

"Wait till we get going, Dot." Bill threw in the reverse and started to turn the car in the direction from which they had come a quarter of an hour before.

"_Don't_ call me 'Dot'! You know I won't stand for it. Aren't you the limit--Going to try to trail him, I suppose, when you could have nailed him right here!"

"Don't get peeved!" Bill swung the little car onto the road and switching off his lights brought his foot down on the accelerator. "I know what I'm doing."

"_Well, maybe_ you do." Her voice was full of sarcasm. "But we might just as well go back to the Pen and Pencil meeting. You'll never catch up with his bus."

"Shan't try to. There's his tail light now!" They rounded the turn and Bill sent the car streaking along the black road like a terrified cat up a back alley. "There's no need to get snippy," he added. "You heard what our friend said about _his_ friend--who understands all about engines? On a bet, that's the lad who wore the chauffeur's cap and beaned the night watchman. He said he'd let him look over the carburetor when he got home, didn't he? And like as not that ripe egg lady--the one with the red head--will be there too!"

"Staten Island Sadie?"

"Sure thing."

"Perhaps," admitted Dorothy. "The lame man _was_ alone in his car. But you stand a good chance of losing him, even if he doesn't see us. We'll have to switch on the lights going through towns."

"But, you see, I'm pretty sure I know where he's bound for."

"You do?" Her surprise drove all petulance from her tone.

"That's what I've kept up my sleeve. If he takes the Ridgefield Road, out of New Canaan, then I'm certain of it."

"Better switch on the glims again," she advised. "We'll crash or get a ticket running without them in this South Main Street traffic--we're nearly in the village now. I can spot the Packard ahead there." Then, contritely, she continued: "Sorry I was peeved, Bill, old thing. I didn't understand. Forgive me--and let's hear all about it."

"Of course--hello!" he cried. "He's slowed down. Confound it, anyway. That comes of talking and not keeping my mind on the job. I'll bet he has his suspicions. Wants to see if we're following--nothing dumb about that bird. I shouldn't have driven so close. He'll tumble to a certainty if we slow up too."

"What are you going to do?"

"Give me time--" he answered grimly. "Confound again! There goes the red light on the Library corner! Now we're in for it."

"P'raps he won't notice us," said Dorothy hopefully as they drew up behind the Packard.

"Not a chance. But we'll fool him yet. Let me do the talking," he whispered as the lame man thrust his head out of the car and looked back at them.

"Hello, there!" cried Bill cheerfully. "I see you've got this far without another breakdown!"

"Good evening, my friend," replied the Italian. "This is a surprise. I thought you were going the other way."

"Oh, no. Just ran down there to leave a message." Bill's tone was affability itself. "You must have come pretty slowly. How's the car running?"

"Nicely, thank you."

"Don't be afraid to let her out. Well--there's the light. Excuse me if I pass you," he said airly. "We're in a hurry. So long."

"Au revoir ..." Dorothy added gaily and waved her hand as Bill swung to the left, then headed up Main Street in advance of the Packard.

"Aren't you smart! You'll get us into a heap of trouble yet with your 'au revoirs'!"

"Hey, there"--she cried. They were rolling swiftly up the hill past the bank.

"You should have turned right then left, for Ridgefield--back at the last corner!"

Bill laughed. "Old Angel Face did just as I figured," he informed her, still chuckling. "I spotted him making the turn, in the glass."

"Where are we going? Sure you haven't lost him?"

"Listen. That chap is heading for Ridgefield. From there he will run another ten miles up to Danbury. Unless I'm completely wet, his objective is a certain house in the hills on a back road, over toward the New York borderline about twenty-five miles north. It's a rough, wild stretch of country, with Pawling, N. Y., to the west and New Milford, Connecticut, on the east, that he's heading for. Nice riding too, dirt roads, mere trails that haven't had a scraper on them since the Revolution. That house I just told you about is a good ten miles from a railroad as a plane flies--probably twice as far by road."

"Interesting--but why are we heading this way?"

"Simply because it is too dangerous to follow that lad just now. He smells a rat and is sure to park in some dark spot along the way to make certain he's not being followed."

"Then what _are_ we going to do?"

"I'm going to run west over to Bedford, New York. Then north from there through Golden Bridge and Croton Falls to Brewster. From Brewster I'll keep to the same state road north toward Pawling. But just before I get to Patterson, there's a dirt road that turns off into the hills to the northeast. That's the one I'll follow. Eventually, I'll get to the house. Angel Face's route is shorter--but I'll get there soon after he does, if he stops along the way to see if anyone's after him. First of all I'll drop you at your house and get myself a gat."

"You'd better get two--for I'm coming with you."

"Sorry, my girl--this is a man's job."

Dorothy turned and stared at him. "Well--of all the consummate nerve--" she began.

"Sorry, Dot--it just can't be. I've got no right to let you run the risk."

"Don't you _dare_ to 'Dot' me again!" Miss Dixon was distinctly irritated. "And what's more, if you try to ditch me, I'll phone the police station and spill everything. They'll pick you up at Bedford and horn in, of course--and like as not, they'll gum it all."

"If you talk that way, I suppose I'll have to take you."

"Of course you will. Say, Bill, that was only a bluff, wasn't it?"

Bill smiled. "Perhaps. But it's a risky business."

"No worse than learning to fly, is it?"

"Fifty-fifty, I should say."

"That's settled, then. What I can't understand is why you didn't corral that gang long before this--or at least put the police on to them, if you knew where they were all the time."

"But that's just it--they haven't been in the house since the robbery. I've driven up there several times and reconnoitered from the air as well."

"Then what makes you think you'll corner the gang at the house now?"

The car turned in the Dixon's drive and came to a stop by the side entrance.

"You'll have to wait till the next chapter for that," he laughed. "Time is worth more than money now. I'll tell you all about it when we get going again. Beat it upstairs now and change that light dress for breeches and a dark sweater or coat. I'll run across the road for something more suitable and less conspicuous than white flannels."

"O.K." Dorothy sprang out of the car. "Don't forget our armory."

"Not a chance. Now forget the prinking and make it snappy," he sang out, backing down the driveway.

_Chapter XII_

THE HOUSE IN THE HILLS

"Don't tell me it takes a girl long to change her clothes!" was Dorothy's salutation, as Bill drove up to the side entrance again. "You've kept me waiting here exactly three minutes and a half."

"Sorry," he said in mock contrition. "Fact is, I thought we'd better use my own bus tonight and I had to go out to the garage to get it."

"What's the big idea?" Dorothy sprang in beside him, looking very trim and boyish in jodhpurs and dark flannel shirt over which she wore a thin brown sweater. "Isn't my car good enough for you?"

"This boat has a full tank," he replied tersely. "Can't waste time tonight picking up gas."

They had reversed the car down the drive and were now speeding along the tree-lined road in the direction of Bedford.

"Got my gun?" she asked.

"Surest thing you know!" Bill passed over a small revolver in a holster. "Tie yourself to that! It's a Colt .32 and it's loaded. Know how to use it?"

"Certainly. What do you expect me to do--release the safety catch and pull the trigger to see if it works?" Her tone flared hotly with indignation.

Bill whistled a tuneless air, but the whistle developed into a laugh and the laugh continued until Dorothy snapped:

"_Don't_ cackle like a billygoat!"

"Billygoats don't--" he began but broke off, changing his bantering tone. "Then why do you tie the leg-strap around your waist?" he asked seriously enough.

She swallowed hard.

"Because--well, because I've never used this kind of a holster before, smarty. But I can shoot--Daddy taught me--I can box, too, and I've had lessons in jiu jitsu. Oh, I can take care of myself, if that's what's worrying you!"

"Glad to hear it, Dorothy. Excitement kind of stirs you up eh?"

"It's not excitement that does it, Bill--it's suspense. But I'm sorry I bawled you out."

"Don't mention it. My humble apologies for being so rude--"

"Imbecile! You weren't. But never mind that--tell me about this house in the woods and what it has to do with the gang who robbed the bank."

The car ran into Bedford and taking the turn to the right, he swung on to the northbound turnpike.

"Go ahead with the story," begged Dorothy as they left the picturesque village behind.

"Right-o! Here goes. On our way back from the South last month, I dropped Dad at New Orleans. The old _Loening_ needed a thorough overhauling, so Dad left me there with the plane and went north by train. After I saw him off at the L. and N. station, I went back to the St. Charles Hotel and slept for nearly twenty-four hours. I got a touch of jungle fever when I was down in the cypress swamps and was still feeling pretty rocky.

"So for the next ten days I loafed while the amphibian got what was coming to her. When she'd been made shipshape again I flew her north. I was in no hurry to reach New Canaan and stopped off at Atlanta, and at Philadelphia, where I have friends.

"A couple of days before I met you I started on the last leg of the hop. It was raining when I left Philly--a filthy morning, with high fog along the coast. That is why I decided not to follow the New York-Philadelphia-Hartford air route, but cut straight north over eastern Pennsylvania and northern New Jersey, hoping for better visibility inland. Instead, the old bus ran me into even worse weather. The fog grew lower and denser and flying conditions became even rottener than before. You haven't run into fog in a plane, yet, Dorothy--and, believe me, it's no fun.

"I expected to cross the Hudson at about Haverstraw and fly east to New Canaan. I know now that I must have overshot that burg; that the plane was probably nearer Newburgh when we crossed the river and headed east. To make matters worse, a few minutes later, the engine commenced to skip. I began to realize then that I didn't know where I was."

Dorothy had been listening intently, her eyes on the grotesque shadows cast by their headlights upon the stone fences along the road; now she turned and stared at him in astonishment.

"That's a good one! You've flown pretty much all over the country--and get lost in dear little Connecticut!"

"Oh, I don't know--parts of the state are as wild as the Canadian woods! And just remember that the visibility at five hundred feet was so poor I could hardly see the nose of my plane. And worse luck, I knew that with the engine cutting up the way she was, I'd soon be forced to land."

"What did you do?"

"Nosed over until I got almost down to the trees on the hilltops. Visibility was better there, but for the life of me I couldn't spot a landing place.--Nothing but one chain of hills after another, all covered with trees. The sides of these foothills of the Berkshires are steep as church roofs--and they run down to narrow, densely wooded valleys. Well, for some time I circled about with the engine acting worse every split second. Then, in a valley a little wider than any I'd come across so far, I saw the glint of water--a little lake. Fifty yards or so away, there was a good-sized farmhouse with a fairly level hay field behind it. I chose the lake, although it wasn't much better than a duck pond--and landed.

"The house was a ramshackle affair, but some smoke rose from the chimney, so I figured someone lived there. While I was fixing my engine, a girl--or rather I should say a young woman--came out of the house and walked down to the little dock near where the plane was floating."

"Of course she had red hair and wore yellow beach pajamas?" said Dorothy.

"She did--I mean, she had. Anyway, when Lizzie described the girl in the car who wanted bicarbonate of soda and got it, I was sure that my er--lady of the lake and she were one and the same."

"Did you talk to her?"

"I did. I told her I was lost and asked her where I had come down. She told me, after a while. That is, she gave me a general idea in what direction Danbury lay and about how far away from town we were. But I thought at the time that she was awfully cagy and tight with her information."

"In other words, she didn't seem especially glad to see you?"

"That's it. Instead of inviting me ashore and up to the house for a meal, she wanted to know how long I was likely to be on the lake--and then she beat it back to the house. Naturally, I thought it queer she should be so inhospitable and stand-offish. People are usually interested anyway, when a plane arrives unexpectedly in their neighborhood--too darn interested, if anything. Still, I didn't think much about her, then. I had the information I wanted, and after changing a couple of sparkplugs, I took off and made New Canaan via Danbury without any more trouble."

"Did you see anyone besides the girl with the red hair?"

"Not a soul."

"And you've been back since the robbery, I think you said?"

"Several times. But the place has been deserted and the house locked up tighter than a drum."

There was a long pause.

"Why do you think the gang are there now?" asked Dorothy. "Simply because we saw the lame man take the Ridgefield road?"

"This is the way I figured." They had passed through the little town of Brewster, heading north, some minutes before. Now Bill turned the car off the state highway and on to a winding dirt road full of deep ruts that he knew ran far into the wooded hill country to the northeast. "It is my idea," he continued, slowing down to a bare twenty-mile pace, "that after the robbery, that gang scattered and laid low for a while. They didn't go to the house, that I do know. After you went to bed that night, I drove up here to have a look-see. Nobody home, as I've told you. But they couldn't have a better place for headquarters. There isn't a house anywhere round that neck of the woods. Sooner or later, they're bound to meet there. The loot has got to be divided. Seeing our lame friend headed in that direction this evening makes me doubly certain. I've kept it to myself, because if that army of detectives who are on this case started camping out near the house on a watchful waiting spree, those crooks would be sure to spot them and never show up."

"I guess you're right," she said.

For some time neither spoke, while their car bumped slowly along the uneven road.

"What do you suppose that lame man was doing on Marvin Ridge?" she inquired presently.

"Search me. How should I know? You certainly love to fire questions at a guy."

"He told us the car hadn't been used lately," she mused, ignoring his remark.

"That only goes to prove we're right in thinking he has been in hiding somewhere."

"But where?"

"Merciful heaven! Another question! That road runs down to Noroton, doesn't it? And from there the Boston Post could bring him from all points east and west. There's no telling where he'd come from."

"But I drove up from the Post Road that way yesterday. It has been freshly oiled to within a half mile of where we met him. Yet that Packard hadn't run through oil. If she had, I'd have seen it with my headlights smack on her."

"Perhaps he came down a side road?"

"Not between that point and the oil--there isn't any."

"Maybe he'd been calling in the neighborhood--"

"Don't be silly--I know everyone who lives along that road."

"You think it out then--I've got enough to do trying to navigate this road. I'm going to switch out the lights, now. We're not more than a couple of miles from the house."

"Do you think they'll put up much of a fight?"

"Good Lord! You don't think I've any intention of trying to capture them?" Bill exclaimed. He was very busily engaged in keeping the car in the middle of the grass grown trail as it rolled, down a steep hillside at a snail's pace. "I'm not taking chances with you along. It would be foolish to attempt anything like that. You'll get into no battles tonight, miss. This is just a scouting party. If the gang have arrived, we'll beat it back to Brewster and get the cops on the job."

"Oh, _dear_!" sighed Dorothy. "And I thought this was going to be the real thing!"

"No grandstand plays for you tonight, young lady. What's more--I'm running this show. If you don't promise to behave, you'll warm a seat in this car, while I mosey up to the house. How about it?"

Dorothy's voice betrayed her disgust and disappointment.

"Oh, I'll promise. But if we are leaving all the fun to the police, why did you bring the guns?"

"Because you seemed to expect them, little brighteyes. But we might as well have left them home, for all the use they'll be--I'll see to that. It's bad enough to be forced into bringing you up here. Your father will certainly raise the roof when he finds it out. I shan't tell him, that's flat."

"You believe in being candid!" with cutting sarcasm.

"You bet. And please remember that if you try to pull off anything you'll probably crab the show. And get us into a good old-fashioned mess besides."

He stopped the car and slipping into reverse gear, backed off the trail.

"There!" He switched off the ignition. "We're all ready for a quick getaway if need be."

"How far are we from the house?" she asked in a tense whisper.

"About a mile. I'm afraid to drive nearer--sound carries a long way up these quiet valleys. Let's get started now. I want you to walk just behind me. Be careful where you place your feet. We'll follow the trail a while farther, but it's pretty rough going. Above all else--don't talk--and make just as little noise as possible."

"What if they have sentries posted?" she asked, coming to his side.

"Aren't you the limit!" Bill seemed really annoyed. "There you go talking again! For your satisfaction, though--if we have the bad luck to come across anyone, I'll naturally do my best to scrag him. You, of course, will act as you think best. My advice is to beat it to the car, as fast as you can. Come along now--and quiet!"

"Aren't you horrid tonight!" she breathed, swinging up the overgrown trail behind him.

But Bill didn't hear her. Anyway, he didn't answer, and she followed in his footsteps while a pleasurable thrill of excitement gradually took the place of her disappointment. It was nearly pitch dark, walking along in the shadow of tall trees that lined the twisting path. Now and then the cry of a night bird came to her from the woods, but except for the dull sound of their steps on the damp earth--the occasional snapping of a twig underfoot, all was quiet in the forest.

Bill was only a blur in the gloom ahead. But she was glad to know he was there just the same. This creeping through the still night to reconnoiter a gang of bank-thieves held a kick all its own. Yes, she was glad that Bill was close by.

There came a movement in the underbrush behind them. Hands of steel caught her arms, pinning them to her sides.

"Sentries, Bill!" she screamed, struggling frantically to free herself. "Look out! _Look out!_"

She heard Bill mutter angrily. Heavy feet crashed in the brush and she heard the sharp impact of a solid fist meeting soft flesh. Several men were shouting now and someone groaned.

Bending suddenly forward and sideways, Dorothy managed to fasten her teeth on the wrist of the man who held her. With a howl, he let go her right arm and at the same time a gun went off. The night was torn with a scream of anguish. But before she could use her free arm someone dropped a bag over her head, a rope was knotted about her wrists and a muffled voice spoke to her through the folds of the sack.

"_Be_have, sister! _Be_have, I say, or I'll crack yer wid dis rod. I ain't no wild cat tamer. Quiet now, or I'll bash yer one!"

Inasmuch as it was no part of Dorothy's plan to get "bashed" in a bag, that young lady kept quiet.

"That's the girl!" he applauded. Swinging her over his shoulder as though she were a sack of flour, he walked away from the scuffle on the trail.

_Chapter XIII_

TRAPPED

The burlap sack was stiflingly hot. Moreover it seemed impregnated with fine particles of dust which burned her throat and nostrils and set her coughing. Dorothy was frightfully uncomfortable. Breathing became more and more difficult.

"Let me go--I'm smothering!" she gasped.

"And get another piece bit out of me arm?" snorted her captor. "Nothin' doin'."

"But I'm choking to death in this filthy bag! It's full of dust!"

"Keep yer mouth shut, then," gruffed the man. "And stop that wrigglin'. I'll tap yer one if yer don't. What do ye think this is, anyway--a joy ride?"

"But--" she began again.

"Shut up!" he growled. "Behave, will yer? Say, sister, if I had me way youse'd get bumped off right now. Give me more of yer lip and I'll do it, anyway!"

There was a grim menace in the gangster's tone that frightened Dorothy more than his words. Thereafter she spoke no more. She even refrained from struggling, although her head swam and his grip of iron about her knees had become torture.

What had happened to Bill, she wondered, and cold fear entered her heart. She was almost certain that it had been a blow from his fist she had heard directly after her warning shout. But the shot and the scream immediately afterward? Had that been the sound of his automatic--or another's? The thought of Bill lying in the woods wounded--perhaps dead--drove her frantic. Yet she was powerless, with her wrists lashed behind her back. While the man who carried her lurched forward, stumbling now and then over the uneven ground, each step causing his victim fresh agony, Dorothy's conviction of hopelessness assailed and overwhelmed the last shreds of her fighting spirit. She wept.

Presently,--it seemed an age,--she sensed that the gangster was mounting a flight of steps. There came the creak of a board underfoot. Then she knew that he was fumbling with a doorknob. A glow of light appeared through the burlap.

"Here we are, sister!" he grunted, with evident relief. Swinging her from his shoulder, he placed Dorothy on her feet and pulled off the sack.

"Gosh!" he exclaimed, steadying her as she would have fallen, "I thought it was a Mack truck I was carryin'. But you're only a kid! Nobody'd think you weighed so much. Did I make you cry?"

He placed an arm under her elbow and led her to a chair. It was of the hard, straight-backed, kitchen variety, but Dorothy was only too glad to sit down and rest. She kept her eyes closed, for the light, after the dark confines of the bag, was blinding. Her breath came in convulsive gasps.

"Feelin' kind of woozy?" The man's tone was callous, but at least it evinced a slight interest in her condition and she took advantage of that at once.

"Yes, I am," she admitted, keeping her eyes closed, but drawing deep breaths of air into her lungs between words. "You nearly smothered me in that filthy bag. If you want to make up for it, you can bring me a drink of water now."

"You certainly have some noive! Y' don't happen ter want a couple of ice cubes and a stick in it too?"

"Plain water, if you please."

"Dat's all you'll get, kid. But I'm dry myself, so I'll bring you some."

She heard him cross the room, jerk open a door and tramp over an uncarpeted floor beyond.

Dorothy opened her eyes.

A wave of faintness swept over her and the room seemed to whirl before her. As she tried to struggle to her feet she found her roped hands had been securely fastened to the back of her chair. She sank back wearily, her thoughts in wild confusion.

After a moment she turned her attention to her surroundings, conscious of the futility of any further effort to free herself, and resolved to bide her time.

The long, narrow room evidently ran the width of the house for shuttered windows broke the bare expanse of walls at either end. Behind her chair, she knew, was the door through which she had been carried into the room, with shuttered windows flanking it. Facing her were two other doors, one open and one closed. Through the open door came the sound of a hand pump in action, where her captor was drawing water.

The room in which she sat was dimly lighted by an oil lamp, its chimney badly smoked and unshaded. It stood on an unpainted table amidst the debris of dirty dishes and an unfinished meal. Chairs pushed back at odd angles from the table gave further evidence of the diners' hurried exit.

"They must have posted someone further down the road," she mused. "I wonder how he got word to the house so quickly?"

Then she caught sight of a wall-phone in the shadows at the farther end of the room. "Telephone, of course! They must have planted one somewhere this side of the turnpike. The man on watch saw our car pass and immediately sent word along the wire!"

It suddenly occurred to Dorothy that she herself might find that telephone useful. For a moment she contemplated dragging her chair across the room, but gave up the idea almost at once, for the sound of the pump in the room beyond had ceased and she heard the gangster's returning footsteps.

He appeared in the doorway almost immediately. A broad-shouldered, narrow hipped, sinewy young man, with a shock of sandy hair falling over his ferret-like eyes. The white weal of an old knife scar marred the left side of his face from temple to chin. An ugly, though not bad humored countenance, she summed up--certainly an easy one to remember.

"Here yer are, sister!" was his greeting. "Get outside o' this an' yer'll feel like a new woman!"

He held a brimming glass of fresh water to her lips.

Dorothy gulped eagerly.

"Hey, there! Not so fast," he cautioned. "You'll choke to death and Sadie'll swear I done yer in." He pulled the glass out of her reach. "Tastes good, eh?"

"It certainly does. Give me some more."

"Take it easy, then. I don't want yer to get sick on this job." He grinned and allowed her to finish drinking. "I guess yer ain't used to a dump like this--" he waved his hand toward the litter on the table and included the peeling wall-paper.

"Still, it's a heap better than a hole in the ground out in the woods. You certainly are the lucky girl!" He grimaced, then laughed heartily at his joke.

Dorothy's tone was stern, "What have they done with Bill?"

"Who's Bill? Yer boy friend?"

"Is he hurt?"

"I hope so. He sure gave Tony a nasty crack. A rough little guy, he is--some scrapper. It looked like a battle royal to me when I left an' brung yer up here. But don't get the wrong idea, kid. By this time, one of the bunch has slipped a knife into him--pretty slick at that sort o' thing, they are."

Dorothy said nothing, but he read her feelings in her face.

"Cheer up, sister," he said, heaping a plate with baked beans and sitting down at the table. "Pardon me, if I finish supper. That lad ain't so hot. You've got me now, haven't yer? I'm a better man than he was, Gunga Din!"

"Yes, you are--I _don't_ think!"

"How do yer get that way?"

"Well--" Dorothy eyed him uncompromisingly--"why are you afraid of me, then?"

"_Afraid?_ You little whippet!" He paused, his knife loaded with beans half way to his mouth. "Say--that's a good one! What are yer givin' us?"

"You keep me tied up, don't you? Why? You're twice my size and you've got a gun--"

"Two of 'em, little one--my rod and yourn."

"Yet you're afraid to loosen my hands."

"No, I'm not--but--"

"Please," she begged, changing her tone. "My face itches terribly from all that dust and I--"

"Well, what do yer think I am? A lady's maid?"

"Don't be silly--I just hate to sit here talking to you, looking such a fright!"

"So that's it," he laughed. "Don't try yer Blarney on me! I'm as ugly as mud and yer knows it. Though I'll say yer need a little make-up--and I'll let yer have it. But just get rid of that idea that you've got me buffaloed--yer haven't!"

He pushed back his chair and coming round the table, untied the rope that bound her wrists.

"Thanks." She began to rub her hands, which were numbed and sore.

"Don't mention it," he leered. "Now yer can doll up to yer heart's content while I shovel some more chow into me. I sure am empty an' that's no lie!"

"Hey, Mike!" called a man's voice from the doorway behind her. "Where do they keep the wheelbarrer in this godforsakin' dump?"

"In the shed out back," returned Mike, sliding his chair up to the table again and picking up his knife. "What yer want it for? What's the trouble?"

"Trouble enough!" grumbled the other. "There's a couple o' guys messed up pretty bad down the line. Need somethin' to cart 'em up here in. Sling me a hunk o' bread, will yer? I ain't had no chow."

"Tough luck!" Mike replied callously, his mouth full, and tossed him half a loaf. "So long."

"So long--" sang out the other, and Dorothy heard him cross the porch and thump down the steps.

She was busily engaged in flexing her stiff fingers. She began to feel better, stronger, quite like her old self again. But the news that two men were badly hurt was anything but comforting. Was Bill one of them? she wondered.

With an effort, she thrust the thought from her, and drawing forth a comb and a compact from a pocket, she commenced the complicated process of making herself presentable. If she was to make her escape before the rest of the gang arrived she must work fast. But not too fast, for every second brought back renewed strength to her cramped arms and fingers.

"How's that?" she asked a few minutes later, replacing comb and compact in her pocket and getting to her feet.

"Say! You're some looker! I'd never have thought it!"

Mike pushed back his chair and came toward her, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. "Say! You've got Sadie lashed to the silo!"

"Who's Sadie? Your steady?" she asked, playfully pointing a forefinger at him.

Mike leaned back against the table. "Never mind Sadie," he retorted. "I've got an idea."

"Spill it."

"You wanta breeze--get outa here, don't yer?"

"What a mind-reader!"

"Cut it, kid!" Mike's tone was tense with earnestness. "That guy you been travelin' with is either dead or a cripple. Sposin' you pal up with me. Tell me yer will, kid, and we'll hop it together, now."

"How about the rest of the gang?"

"What about 'em. I ain't a regular--just horned in on this deal to make a coupla grand extra."

"But I'm expensive--" she laughed.

"I'll say you are! What of it? I make good money. I'm no lousy crook. I've got a real profession."

"What is it?"

"I'm a wrestler, kid, and I ain't no slouch at it, either."

For a moment Dorothy paled. For some reason she seemed taken aback.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Dorothy straightened her lithe figure.

"Not a thing," she shrugged. Then musingly, "So you're a wrestler, eh?"

"Sure--what did yer think I was--a gigolo?"

Dorothy giggled. "Know this hold?" she asked casually.

And then a startling thing occurred--especially startling to the unsuspecting Mike. There was a flash of brown-sweatered arms, a swirl of darker brown hair and Mike felt himself gripped by one elbow and the side of his neck. He knew the hold, had practiced it in gymnasium, but not for some years. To be seized violently thus aroused the man and it brought an instinctive muscular reaction which was assisted by a stab of pain as Dorothy's thumb sank upon the nerve which is called the "funny bone."

Yes, Mike knew the hold, and how to break it and recover; so as Dorothy swirled him backward onto the table with uncanny strength, he pivoted. Then, clutching her under her arms, he clasped his hands just beneath her shoulder blades, bearing downward with his head against her chest. It was a back-breaking grip, but her slender form twisted in his arms as though he had been trying to hold a revolving shaft. An arm slipped over his shoulder, a hand fastened on his wrist and began to tug it slowly upward with the deliberate strength of a low-geared safe hoist. Then the other hand, stealing around him, encircled the middle finger of his clasped hand and began to force it back--a jiu jitsu trick. If he resisted, the finger would be broken. To release his clasp would mean a probable dislocation of the other arm.

Mike realized that he had to do not only with a phenomenally strong girl, but with a skilled and practiced exponent of Oriental wrestling tricks. He was by no means ignorant of this school, and countered the attack in the proper technical way--with utter relaxation for the moment--a supple yielding, followed by a swift offensive. Though he was broader of shoulder and heavier, the two were nearly of equal height, possibly of equal strength, but of a different sort. Mike's was slower, but enduring; Dorothy's more that of the panther--swift, high of innervation, but incapable of sustained tension.

Such maneuvers as immediately followed in this curious combat were startling. Mike felt that he was struggling with an opponent far more skilled than himself in jiu jitsu, one trained to the last degree in the scientific application of the levers and fulcrums by which minimum force might achieve maximum results in the straining of ligaments and paralysis of muscles.

And to give him his due, for all his bluff about striking her with the gun on the way up to the house, Mike had some decent instincts beneath his roughness. Whereas he was striving to overcome without permanently injuring the girl, Dorothy had no such qualms. She was fighting with deliberate intention of putting him out of the running, for at least such time as would permit her to carry out her plans for escape.

But for a time Mike's efforts were purely defensive, his object to save himself from disgraceful defeat. What would the gang say if she bested him, a professional wrestler, and make her getaway?

They fell across the table, shattering the crockery, then pitched off on to the floor with Mike underneath.

He writhed over on his face and offered an opening for an elbow twist which was not neglected. There was an instant when he thought the joint would go; but he broke the hold by a headspin at the cost of infinite pain.

Mike had seen the state in which jiu jitsu wrestlers left their vanquished adversaries. Defeat at this girl's hands would probably leave him helpless and crippled for three or four hours. It was not a pleasant thought. He would have to hurt her--hurt her badly, if he could.

He was flat on his face again when suddenly he felt his automatic jerked from its holster and she sprang to her feet.

"If you move an eyelash," said Dorothy, rather breathlessly, "I'll pull the trigger!"

"If you don't drop that rod at once, I'll blow the top of your head off," declared a dispassionate voice from the doorway.

Dorothy dropped the gun.

_Chapter XIV_

THE DOCTOR

"And now, Mike," continued the voice, "I'd like to know how you happened to be caught napping."