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Chapter IV
THE FIRST HOP
"How about giving me my first flying lesson now?" Dorothy suggested as Bill hauled in their anchor.
"You really want to learn?"
"Of course I do-I'm crazy about it!"
Bill coiled the mooring line, looping it with practiced skill. "And I'd be glad to give you instruction. But you're a minor-before we can start anything like that we must get your Dad's permission."
"Oh, that'll be all right, Bill," was the young lady's cool assurance. "But how about right now-"
"Every student aviator is a watchful waiter the first time up. You stand behind me this trip and I'll explain what I'm doing as we go along."
"That'll be great! I'm just wild to fly this plane!"
Bill smiled. "But you won't get your flight instruction in this plane, Dorothy."
"Why not?"
"This amphibian is too big and heavy, for one thing; for another, she isn't equipped with dual controls."
"But what does that mean?"
"I see we'll have to start your training right now, Miss Student Pilot-Controls is a general term applied to the means proved to enable the pilot to control the speed, direction of flight, altitude and power of an aircraft. – Savez?"
"You sound like a text book-but I get you."
"All right. Now, unless we want the bus washed up on the beach, we'd better shove off."
Fastening the door to the deck after them, they passed through the cabin and into the pilot's cockpit where head-phone sets were at once adjusted. The amphibian bobbed and swayed at the push of little waves. The sun's face, scrubbed clean and bright by wind and rain was reflected in the rippling water; whilst wet surfaces of leaves, lawns, tree trunks and housetops bordering the inlet gleamed in a wash of gold.
Little gusts of fresh air blew in through the open windows filling the cockpit with a keen sweet odor of wet earth.
Dorothy drew a deep breath. "My! the air smells good after that storm!"
"You bet-" agreed Bill. "But I'll smell brimstone when your father comes into the picture, if we don't shove off pronto for New Canaan."
"Oh, that's just like a boy-" she pouted.
"Shush! student-Listen to your master's-I mean, – your instructor's voice, will you?"
"Instructor's better," she smiled.
"Here beginneth your first lesson." Bill slid into the pilot's seat. "Stand just behind me and hold on to the back of my seat," he ordered.
Dorothy promptly did as she was told. After all, was not this the real Bill Bolton the famous ace and midshipman she had read about?
"All set?"
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Good enough! Here we go then. I'll explain every move I make, as I make it. Look and listen! First-I crack the throttle-in other words, before starting the engine, set your throttle in its quadrant slightly forward of the fully closed position. Next, I 'contact'-that's air parlance for 'ignition switch on.' After that, I press the inertia starter to swing our propeller into motion-" the engine sputtered, then roared.
"It is most important," he went on a moment later, "to see that the way ahead and above is clear at this point. Safety first is the slogan of good flying."
"Yes. But really, Bill, you don't have to explain every thing you do. I'm watching closely. When I don't understand, I'll ask-if it's all the same to you?"
"Good girl. Don't hesitate to ask me, though."
"I won't."
With that she saw him widen the throttle and with his stick held well back of neutral to prevent the nose dipping under the waves, he sent the big seaplane hurtling through the water toward the inlet's mouth. The wind had changed since the storm and now, as they raced into the teeth of the light breeze, Dorothy tingled with that excitement which comes to every novice with the take off.
Six or eight seconds after opening the throttle, she saw him push the stick all the way forward.
"Why do you do that? Won't that raise the tail of the plane and depress the nose?"
Bill shook his head. "In the air-yes. But we're moving at some speed now on the surface-and the bow cannot be pushed down into the water. Our speed is gradually forcing it up until-now-we're skimming along on the step, you see."
Dorothy nodded to herself and watched him ease the stick back to neutral and maintain it there while they gathered more and more speed.
"Now I'm going to talk some more," said Bill. "Don't blame me if it sounds like a text book. – In order to fly, certain things must be learned-and remembered. Do not take off until you have attained speed adequate to give complete control when in the air. Any attempt to pull it off prematurely will result in a take off at the stalling point, where control is uncertain. Understand?"
"I think so-but how does one know when to do it?"
"That comes with practice-and the feel of the ship. As flying speed is gained, I give a momentary pressure on the elevators (like this) – and break the hull out of the water-so-easing the pressure immediately after the instant of take off. Now that we are in the air our speed is only slightly above minimum flying speed. Any decrease in this would result in a stall. That is why I keep the nose level for six or seven seconds in order to attain a safe margin above stalling point before beginning to climb."
"There's certainly a lot more to it than I ever dreamed!"
"You bet there is. I haven't told you the half of it yet. One thing I forgot to say-you must always hold a straight course while taxiing before the take off. Also, never allow a wing to drop while your plane is on the step. – We've got enough speed on now, so I'll pull back the stick and let the plane climb for a bit."
"But you're heading for the Long Island Shore directly away from New Canaan-" she protested, "why don't you bring her about-not that I'm in any hurry, but-"
"This is an airplane, not a sailboat, Dorothy. All turns must be made with a level nose. If I should try to turn while in a climb like this, a stall would probably result, and with the wing down the plane would most likely go into a spin and-"
"We'd crash!"
"Surest thing you know!"
"Oh!"
"But the altimeter on the dash says one thousand feet now. We're high enough for our purpose. So I push the stick forward, like this-until the nose is level-so! Now, as I want to make a right turn, I apply right aileron and simultaneously increase right rudder considerably."
Dorothy saw one wing go up and the other go down. She was hardly able to keep her feet as the plane's nose swung round toward the Connecticut shore.
"Isn't that called banking?"
"Right on the first count," replied Bill.
"Why do you do it?"
"Because in making a turn, the momentum of the plane sets up a centrifugal force, acting horizontally outward. To counteract this, the force of lift must be inclined until it has a horizontal component equal to the centrifugal force. The machine is therefore tilted to one side, or banked, thus maintaining a state of equilibrium in which it will turn steadily. No turn can be made by the use of the rudder alone. The plane must be banked with ailerons before the rudder will have any turning effect. – Get me?"
"I get the last part. Guess I'll have to do some studying."
"Everybody has to do that. But I'll lend you some books, so you can bone up on the theory of flight. What I said just now amounts to this: if you don't bank enough you send your plane into a skid."
"Just like an automobile skids?"
"Yes. But of course the danger doesn't lie in hitting anything as in a car. A skidding plane loses her flying speed forward and drops into a spin. On the other hand, if you bank her too sharply, you go into a sideslip!"
"And the result in both cases is a crash?"
"Generally. But I think you've had enough instruction for today."
"Oh-but I want to know how you ended that turn. We're flying straight again now-and I was so interested in what you were saying, I forgot to watch what you did!"
"Well, after I had banked her sufficiently, I checked the wings with the ailerons and at the same time eased the pressure on the rudder. Then I maintained a constant bank and a constant pressure on the rudder pedal throughout the turn. To resume straight flight, I simply applied left aileron and left rudder: and when the wings were level again, I neutralized the ailerons and applied a normal amount of right rudder."
"My goodness!" exclaimed Dorothy-"and that is only one of the things I have to learn. I thought that flying a plane wouldn't be much more complicated than driving a car."
"Oh, it's simple enough-only you have to balance a plane, as well as drive it."
"Do you think I'll ever learn?"
"Of course you will. It takes time and practice-that's all."
"I wonder how birds learn to fly?" Dorothy glanced down at the wide vista of rolling country over which they were traveling. The dark green of the wooded hills, the lighter green of fields, criss-crossed by winding roads and dotted with houses, all in miniature, seemed like viewing a toy world. And here and there, just below them, there was the occasional flash of feathered wings, as the birds darted in and out among the treetops.
"Birds have to learn to fly, too. They get into trouble sometimes."
"They do?"
"Certainly-watch gulls on a windy day-you'll see them sideslip-go into spins-and have a generally hard time of it!"
"Oh, really? I'd never thought of that. But of course they can fly much better than a plane."
Bill shook his head. "That's where you are wrong. No bird can loop, or fly upside down. Reverse control flying and acrobatics-stunting generally is impossible for them. – But look below! Recognize the scenery?"
"Why, we're almost over New Canaan. There are the white spires of the Episcopal and Congregational churches-and there's Main Street-and the railroad station!"
"And over on that ridge is your house-and mine across the way," he added. "Well, here's where I nose her over. Hold tight-we're going down."
Chapter V
TROUBLE
After releasing the rectractible wheel landing gear, which turned the big amphibian from a seaplane into one which could land on terra firma, Bill brought his big bus gently down to the ten acre lot behind the Bolton residence.
As the plane rolled forward on its rubber tired wheels and came to a stop, two men came walking in its direction from the trees at the edge of the field.
"Here come our respective fathers-" announced Bill, stripping off his headgear. "Remember-I take all responsibility for bringing you back in the plane."
"You-do nothing of the kind!" Dorothy's tone was final. She handed him her head-phone and running back through the cabin, vaulted the low bulwark to the ground.
Bill hurriedly made things secure in the cockpit and followed her.
"And so you see, Dad," he heard her say, as he approached where they stood, "Bill not only saved my life-he took all kinds of chances with his own, flying in a gale like that. And-oh! I forgot to tell you that he warned me not to go out in the Scud this afternoon!" she ended with a mischievous look toward Bill.
Mr. Dixon was a tall man, whose tanned, rugged features and searching gaze suggested the sportsman. He turned from his excited daughter, with a smile and an outstretched hand.
"I'm beginning to realize, young man, that I owe you an apology for my shortness over the phone. Judging from Dorothy's story, I can never hope to express my gratitude for what you've done today."
Bill mumbled an embarrassed platitude as he shook hands, and was glad when Mr. Bolton broke into the conversation.
"The Boltons, father and son, were probably born to be hung," he chuckled. "It's a family trait, to fall into scrapes-and so far, to get out of them just as quickly. Now, as nobody has been polite enough to introduce me to the heroine of this meeting-I'm the hero's fond parent, Miss Dorothy. We are about to celebrate this festive occasion by a housewarming, in the form of a scrap dinner at the hero's home-what say you?"
"But I thought you were coming to our house-" cried Dorothy. "I-"
"But me no buts, young lady. Your father has already accepted for you both and we simply can't take no for an answer."
Dorothy glanced at Bill, who stood rather sheepishly in the background. Then she laughed. "Why, of course, if you put it that way-I'd love to come; that is, if the hero is willing!"
"Say, do you think that's fair!" Bill's face was red. He didn't think much of that kind of kidding. "I think it would be great, that is, if you mean me," he ended in confusion.
Amid the general laughter that followed, Dorothy uttered a cry of disgust. "But I can't come like this-" she pointed to her clothes, which were the things that Bill had laid out for her in the big plane's cabin.
"You look charming-" Mr. Bolton bowed, and Dorothy blushed. "However-"
"Make it snappy, then, dear." Mr. Dixon drew out his watch. "You have just fifteen minutes. And Mr. Bolton won't keep dinner waiting for you, if he's as famished as I am!"
"Oh, give me twenty!" she pleaded.
"All right-hurry, now!"
With a wave of her hand, Dorothy darted away.
"I'll look after the plane, Bill," said his father, as she disappeared among the orchard trees. "I want to show Mr. Dixon over it, and that will give you time for a slicking-up before dinner."
It was a jolly, though belated meal that was eventually served to them in the cool, green dining room of the Bolton's summer home that evening. Mr. Dixon, with the finesse of an astute business man, drew out Mr. Bolton and his son, and the two told tales of adventure by land and sea and air that fascinated the New England high school girl. It all seemed unreal to her, sitting in the soft light of the candles. Yet the Boltons made light of hairbreadth escapes in the world's unmapped areas-just as if these strange adventures were daily occurrences in their lives, she thought.
"It certainly is a shame!" she burst out suddenly. Coffee had been served and they had moved to the comfort of low wicker chairs on the terrace. The air was filled with the perfume of June roses.
"What's a shame?" Bill, now spick and span in white flannels, settled back in his chair.
"Why, all the wonderful times you and Mr. Bolton have had-while Dad and I were sticking around in New Canaan. I'd love to be an adventurer," she finished.
"I dare say you'd find it mighty uncomfortable at times," observed her father. "How about it, Bolton?"
"Like everything else, it has its drawbacks and becomes more or less of a grind when one 'adventures' day in and day out-" that gentleman admitted. "I'm only too glad to be able to settle down in this beautiful ridge country for a few months-to rest and be quiet."
"There you are, Dorothy." Her father smiled in the darkness. "And who would there be out in the wilds to admire that smart frock you're wearing, for instance?"
"Gee, Dad! You know I don't care half as much about clothes as lots of the girls-and that hasn't anything to do with it, anyway."
"I think we ought to break the news to her," suggested Bill, a white blur in the depths of his chair.
Dorothy sat up eagerly. "What news?"
"But perhaps we'd better wait until tomorrow. Tonight, she wants to become an explorer-and give away all her best dresses. She might not take kindly to it." This from Mr. Dixon, between puffs of aromatic cigar smoke.
"You're horrid-both of you. Don't you think it's mean of them to make such a mystery of whatever they're talking about, Mr. Bolton? Won't you tell me?"
"Of course, I will, my dear. What do you want to know?"
Dorothy choked with vexation. "Oh!"
"Let's tell her now-right now-" said Bill, his voice brimming with laughter.
"I don't want to hear."
"Yes, you do-all together: one-two-three! You-are-going-to-learn-to-fly!"
Dorothy sprang to her father's chair and caught his arm. "Will you really let me, Dad?" she cried in delight.
"Mr. Bolton says that Bill is an A-1 instructor-and he claims that flying is no more dangerous than sailing twenty-footers in a nor'easter, so I suppose-"
"Oh-you darling!" Dorothy flung her arms about his neck.
"Here-here-" cried Mr. Dixon. "You're ruining my collar, and my cigar-"
"Have another," suggested Mr. Bolton. "I'd willingly ruin boxes of cigars if I had a daughter who'd hug me that way!"
"Aren't you nice!" She turned about and bestowed a second affectionate embrace on that gentleman. "That is because you aren't quite as mean as your son-he's the limit!"
"Never slang your instructor," sang out Bill. "That's one of the first rules of the air."
"Seriously, Dorothy," her father interposed. "This is a big responsibility Bill is taking-and I want your word that you'll do just as he says. No more running off and smashing up a plane as you did the Scud this afternoon!"
"All right, Dad. I promise. But what am I to learn in? Bill says that the Amphibian is too heavy-and she's not equipped with dual controls."
Mr. Dixon lit a fresh cigar. "I see that you've already started your flight training."
"Bill explained the procedure to me on our way up here this afternoon. But what are we going to do for a plane?"
"Bill has some scheme, I believe."
"Oh, I know," she decided. "Bill shall pick me out a nice little plane and-"
"I shall pay for it," said her father grimly. "Nothing doing. When you have won your wings-well-we shall see. Until then, you and Bill will have to figure without financial help from your fond parent."
"That's fair enough," agreed Mr. Bolton.
"O.K. with me, too," echoed Bill. "I happen to have an old N-9, a Navy training plane, down at the shipyard near the beach club, that will do nicely. I was down there this afternoon having her pontoon removed. I want to equip her with landing gear so I can house her up here. The Amphibian uses up too much gas to go joy-hopping in."
A maid appeared on the doorstep.
"Mr. Dixon wanted on the phone, please," she announced, and waited while that gentleman preceded her into the house.
A moment later Mr. Dixon was back on the terrace.
"The bank's been robbed!" he cried. "Sorry, gentlemen, but I've got to hustle down there just as soon as possible."
"This way!" called Bill, springing down the steps to the garden. "My car's out here-come on!"
"That young chap can keep his head," thought Mr. Dixon as he ran beside his daughter and Mr. Bolton. "It would take a lot to fluster him."
Then they came upon him, backing slowly up the drive, both doors swinging wide so they could jump in the car without his stopping.
"Which bank, Mr. Dixon?"
Bill had the car in the road now and was racing toward the village.
"First National-Main Street, next the Town Hall. I'm president, you know."
"I didn't know. But I'm glad to hear it."
"How's that?"
"You should have a drag with the traffic cops. We are doing an even sixty now-and it would be a bad time to get a ticket."
Mr. Dixon grasped the door-handle as Bill skidded them into a cross road with the expertness of a racing driver. "Just get us there, that's all," he gasped. "The chief himself phoned me. I didn't wait to hear details-but from what I gathered, the hold up men got clean away before the police discovered the robbery. But time is always a factor in a case of this kind, so don't worry about traffic rules."
"I won't," said Bill and fed his powerful engine still more gas.
Along the straight stretch of Oenoke Avenue they sped, with Bill's foot still pressing the accelerator. They flashed past the white blur of the Episcopal Church and on down the hill into Main Street and the little town.
The car's brakes screamed and Bill brought them to a stop on the edge of the crowd of pedestrians and vehicles that blocked further progress.
"D'you want us to wait here?" asked Mr. Bolton.
"No-come along," returned his friend, jumping to the sidewalk. "We'll learn the worst together."
Chapter VI
THE HOLD UP
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.
