VISITORS
"You girls stay in here--I'll go," continued George, his hand on the
swinging door to the dining room.
"No, you shan't!" Betty sprang before him, blocking his way.
"Don't make such a fuss," said Dorothy. "Somebody's got to go. Come
here!"
Her long arm shot out and Betty was held in a light embrace that seemed
as unbending as tempered steel.
"Stop wriggling," she commanded. "This is George's job. Did you leave
your gun in the library, George?"
"Yes. I'll pick it up on the way."
"Better not do that. Maybe it's one of your neighbors."
"Haven't any. None of the people around here come to see me."
The bell buzzed loudly again, and continued to do so. Someone was
keeping a finger pressed on the button beside the front door.
"I have a plan," Dorothy announced suddenly. "Betty, you stay here,
and--"
"And have them break in the back door while you two are in the front
hall? No thanks--I'm coming with you, that's all."
Dorothy did not stop to argue. She hurried into the dining room and
across the hall to the library, followed by the others.
"Look here," she whispered, picking up the shotgun. "Slip on your
jacket, George. That shirt will show anyone you've been in a fight.
Betty and I will go into the front sitting room. It's dark in there.
Turn on the hall light and open the door as though everything were all
right, and you expected a friend. If it is someone you know, they won't
see us in the sitting room. If it isn't--and they try to start
something, jump back so you're out of line from the door to that room
... and I'll fill 'em full of salt!"
"Swell idea! A regular flank attack!" enthused the young man, struggling
into his coat. "All set?"
He switched on the hall light. The girls ran into the sitting room.
Dorothy stood in the dark with the shotgun pointed toward the hall and
saw him turn the key and pull open the door.
"Good evening, George," whined a high-pitched voice. "Mind if I come in
for a minute or two?"
"Walk in, Mr. Lewis. Bad night, isn't it?"
George's face showed surprise but he swung the door wide and closed it
with a bang as a tall figure, leaning heavily on a cane, shuffled into
the lighted hallway. The man's bent back, rounded shoulders and the
rather long white hair that hung from beneath the wide brim of his soft
black hat, all bespoke advanced age. Immensely tall, even with his
stoop, the old man towered over George, who was all of six feet himself.
Although the night was not cold, he was buttoned to the chin in a long
fur coat. Dorothy caught sight of piercing black eyes beneath tufted
white eyebrows. The long, cadaverous, clean shaven face was a network of
fine wrinkles.
"What say?" He cupped a hand behind his ear.
"I said it was a bad night to be out in," shouted George. "What can I do
for you?"
"Yes, that's it, my lad--there's something I--Yes, it's a bad night--bad
storm. Listen, George!"
"Yes, sir."
"What say?"
"I'm listening, Mr. Lewis."
"Well, listen then."
The sharp eyes peered up and down the hall. Dorothy moved further back
into the dark room.
"Your father had a lot of books, George--a very fine library."
"Yes, he had."
"What say?"
"I said he had."
The old man shook his head. His high voice became querulous.
"I know he's dead," he snorted. "I'm talking about his books."
"They are not for sale," said George.
"Bless you--I don't want to buy 'em. But there's one I want to borrow."
"Which one is that?"
"What say?"
George's reply _sotto voce_ was not polite. He was getting impatient.
"I want to borrow a book called Aircraft Power Plants; it's by a man
named Jones."
Dorothy pricked up her ears.
"All right," shouted George. "I'll try to find it."
"What say? Listen, George! Speak distinctly, if you can. I'm not
deaf--just a little hard of hearing. Don't mumble--you talk as though
your mouth was full of hot potato. That's a bad eye you've got--been in
a fight?"
George ignored this last. "Listen--" he said, then stopped, controlling
a desire to giggle as he realized his plagiarism. "Come into the
library, Mr. Lewis. I'll try to find the book for you." He took the old
man by the arm and led him down the hall.
Betty crept over to Dorothy.
"Do you know who he is?" she asked in a low tone.
"Mr. Lewis, I gathered," said Dorothy, straining her ears to catch the
muffled sounds coming from the library. "_He_ talked loud enough,--quite
an old gentleman, isn't he?"
"Old skinflint, you mean."
"You've seen him before?"
"Certainly. I've seen him at our house. Daddy knows him--says he's made
a fortune, foreclosing mortgages and loaning money at high rates of
interest. He's terribly rich, though you'd never know it by his looks."
"That's interesting--wonder what he wants with George?"
"Came to borrow a book--that's plain enough."
"Almost too plain, if you want my opinion," Dorothy said thoughtfully.
"There's no use guessing at this stage of the game."
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, nothing much. Can you hear what they're saying in the next room?"
"They seem to be having an argument--but it's not polite to listen--"
"Polite, your grandmother! I'd listen if I could--but all I get is a
mumble-jumble. I vote we go back to the kitchen. I want my supper. I'll
feel better when I've eaten. This house gives me the jim-jams for some
reason."
"Me, too," Betty admitted ungrammatically. "Fancy being alarmed at the
sound of a doorbell!"
"My word--and likewise cheerio!" Dorothy turned the flash on her friend.
"How do you get that way, Betty? Been reading the British poets or
something?"
Betty blinked in the glare. "Turn it off. No, I haven't. Don't you
remember the movies last night? The English Duke in that picture--" She
broke off suddenly and caught at Dorothy's arm. "Listen--Dot, listen!"
she whispered.
From the rear of the house came a muffled pounding.
Dorothy shook her off. "I'll dot you a couple, if you take liberties
with my name," she snapped. "And for goodness' sake, don't hold on to me
that way, and stop that listen stuff! This isn't an
earthquake--somebody's at the back door, and I'm going to see who it
is!"
"But suppose those men have come back?"
"They're too well salted down," Dorothy flung back at her. "I _fancy_
you'd better stay in here--if you're _alarmed_!"
She crossed the hall to the dining room again and hurried through the
kitchen with Betty close on her trail. That young person apparently
preferred to chance it rather than be left alone.
Dorothy went at once to the back door.
"Who's there?" she called, as the knocking broke out again.
"It's Bill Bolton," returned a muffled voice. "Is that you, Dorothy?"
She drew back the bolt and flung the door open.
"Hello, Bill!" she hailed. "You're just in time for supper."
A tall, broadshouldered young fellow wearing golf trousers and an old
blue sweater which sported a Navy "N" came into the room. He was
bareheaded and his thick, close-cropped thatch of hair was brown. When
he smiled, Bill Bolton was handsome. A famous ace and traveller at
seventeen, this friend of Dorothy's had not been spoiled by notoriety.
His keen gray eyes twinkled goodnaturedly as he spoke to Dorothy.
"Well, I should say you look pretty much at home," he grinned. "But then
you have a faculty of landing on your feet. And how's Betty tonight?
Thought I'd find you girls in a tight fix and here you are--getting up a
banquet. Terry Walters was over at my house when you rang up, so he came
with me. He's outside, playing second line defense. All sereno here, I
take it?"
"Quiet enough now," Dorothy admitted, "though it was a bit hectic, to
say the least, a while back. Call Terry in, will you? I'm going to do
some scrambled eggs and bacon now."
She reached for a bowl and began to crack eggs and break them into it.
Bill stuck his head out the door and whistled.
A moment later, a heavy set, round faced lad of sixteen made his
appearance in the doorway. Under his arm he carried a repeating rifle.
"H'lo, everybody," he breezed, resting his rifle against the wall. "This
is some surprise,--Bill and I were all set to play the heavy heroes and
we find you making fudge!"
"Not fudge," corrected Betty. "Honest-to-goodness food! Dorothy and I
haven't had a single thing to eat since lunch, except a lettuce sandwich
and some cake at Helen Ritchie's tea over at Peekskill this afternoon.
We're getting supper now."
"_We?_" Dorothy's tone was richly sarcastic. "Then, old dear, suppose
you do some of the getting. I think I heard the front door shut just
now, so that means that old Mr. Lewis has shoved off. You can go into
the dining room and set the table.--Bill, you're a good cook--how about
starting the coffee? Terry, be a sport and cut some bread--you might
toast it while you're about it!"
"Whew!--some efficiency expert!" Terry winked at Bill. "Where do they
keep the bread box in this house, anyway?"
"Barks her orders like a C.P.O. doesn't she?" laughed Bill, opening the
coffee tin. Then he drew forth a wax-paper wrapped loaf from an enameled
container, held it up: "Here's your bread, Terry--catch!"
The door from the dining room swung open and George came in.
"Well, George!" Dorothy turned to the others. "Here is our host," she
explained and introduced him all round.
"It's certainly white of you fellows to hustle over here," he said as he
shook hands. "I appreciate it."
"Oh, don't mention it," grinned Bill. "We seem to be rather late for the
excitement."
"Well, if it hadn't been for Betty and Dorothy--" began George.
"You'd have pulled yourself out all right," interrupted the latter young
lady. "Look here, supper's nearly ready, and since I've set everybody
else to work, suppose I give you a job, too? Take Betty into the dining
room and show her how to set the table, and you'll be a fine help."
"Say, it's great, the way you've pitched in here--did you have a hard
time finding things?"
"No, not at all. Except--" here Dorothy looked stern, "I don't approve
of your housekeeping methods--I had to scour the frying pan twice, sir,
do you realize that?"
George hung his head. "Gee, I guess I'm pretty careless, but--"
The cook giggled: "Mercy, you look downcast. I was only kidding, George.
I think you're a fine housekeeper, honestly, I do. Now you get a wiggle
on with the table, please. These eggs are nearly finished. They'll be
ruined if we have to wait."
When the two had disappeared, Dorothy dished the scrambled eggs into a
warm plate and turned to Bill and Terry.
"He thinks Betty ran this job," she informed them. "They've got a crush
on each other, I guess. So don't put him wise, will you?"
"Mum's the word," smiled Bill, while Terry nodded. "Far be it from me to
mess up love's young dream."
"Don't be silly," retorted Dorothy. "But you know, Betty's a darling. I
had to be terribly cross with her all the time, just to keep her bucked
up. But she's my best friend and I'm crazy about her."
"She is nervous and high-strung, I know," supplemented Terry. "I'll bet
you had a sweet time with her."
"Not so bad. Have you boys had supper?"
"Oh, yes, some time ago," answered Bill.
"That's good. I didn't want to use up all George's food. I'll let you
have some coffee, though--that is, if you're good and don't kid those
two in the other room."
"Cross-my-heart-hope-to-die-if-I-do." Bill's face was solemn.
"Likewise me," declaimed Terry. "I must have my coffee."
"Table's set," announced Betty, popping in to the kitchen, closely
followed by George.
"Eggs are finished and the bacon's fried," returned Dorothy. "How about
the coffee, Bill?"
"Perfect--though I sez so."
"_And_ the toast!" Terry was busy buttering the last slice. "You know,
lovers used to write sonnets on their lady's eyebrows--now, if they'd
seen this toast!"
Dorothy shook her head at him. "That will be about all from you. Come
along, all of you--everything smells so good, and I'm simply ravenous."
It was a merry party that gathered about the old mahogany dining table.
Bill began by teasing Dorothy about her lack of foresight that sent her
up on a flight without enough gas. She returned his banter with
interest: the others joined in and for a time everybody was wisecracking
back and forth.
George was the first to bring the conversation back to current events.
"I don't know Mr. Lewis very well," he replied in answer to a question
of Betty's. "He was a friend of my father's--at least father had
business dealings with him. I thought I'd never get rid of the old boy
tonight."
"Did you find the book he wanted?" asked Dorothy. "Jones' Aircraft Power
Plants, wasn't it?"
"Some book, too!" affirmed Bill. "Have you read it, Conway?"
"Didn't know I owned it. The book--in fact, the whole library, was my
father's. About all he saved from the wreck. When I couldn't find the
book for old Lewis, what do you think he said?"
"'Listen!'" Dorothy's voice mimicked perfectly the old gentleman's
querulous tones. Everyone burst into laughter.
"Yes, he said that," George told her, "and a whole lot more."
"I hate riddles," cried Betty. "Do tell us--"
"Why, he wanted to buy the entire library--and when I turned him down,
he made me an offer on the house providing entire contents went with
it!"
Betty laughed. "A good low price, I'll bet. Mr. Lewis is a terrible old
skinflint."
"I thought so, too, until he made me this offer."
"Do you mind saying how much?" Dorothy never hesitated to come to the
point.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars!"
"Seems like a lot of money to me!" was Bill's comment.
"A lot of money! I should say so." George cried excitedly. "Why, this
place isn't worth more than eight--possibly ten thousand dollars at the
outside."
"I smell a rat," said Terry, "or to put it more politely, the old boy's
offer has something doggoned stinking crooked mixed up in it."
"To add to our cultured brother's oratory," said Bill, "There certainly
seems to be something pretty darned putrid in the kingdom of Denmark!"
"A whole lot nearer home, if you ask me," broke in Dorothy.--"That old
man--"
"Just a moment," begged Bill. "Your deductions, Miss Dixon, are always
noteworthy. In fact, at times, the press of our glorious country has
frequently referred to you as Miss Sherlock Holmes, but--"
"Cut the comedy, Bill!" broke in the object of this effusion. "What is
it you're driving at?"
"Simply, as I was saying when so rudely interrupted, that your
deductions and ideas on this business may be Aland a yard wide, but
except for what you shot at me over the telephone, both Terry and I are
wading about in a thick pea soup fog, so to speak. Suppose you give us
your account of these mysterious happenings. That should put us 'hep' to
the situation, and then George can tell us his end of the story, why he
got tied up by these blokes and all that."
George did not appear cheerful. "But I don't know--" he protested.
"Haven't the slightest idea."
"So Dorothy said over the phone. But perhaps if you start far enough
back--give us the story of your life, as it were--we may be able to dig
out a motive."
"At times you show positively human intelligence, Bill!" Dorothy yawned,
without apology. "Well, here goes! Maybe if Bill will let me get a few
words in edgewise, I may forget I'm so sleepy!"