They walked toward the car, each trying to show her own particular brand of pleasure at Dot’s arrival.
“And we need you, too,” Arden put in with a little tug at Dot’s arm. “Don’t we, girls?”
“Now, look here!” and Dot pulled them all to a sudden halt. “You are up to something, I’m sure. What is it? Any new mysteries thrusting themselves upon you?”
“Dot, my child,” Arden answered, “you are positively psychic! That’s exactly what we’re bursting to tell you!”
“Ghosts! Nice hundred-year-old ones! All hoary and bloody, with pointing fingers!” Terry supplied.
“And a poor old lady and two orphan grandchildren,” grunted Sim, as she tried to turn the wheel of the car. All four were in the front seat, a feat accomplished by Sim, Arden, and Terry squeezing into a row and Dot sitting on Terry’s lap. That Dot’s head was much higher than the windshield and unsheltered from the wind bothered them not at all. With so much to say, they simply couldn’t split up the group by using the rumble seat. Dot’s grips were there, anyway, and for the two weeks of her visit she would be well supplied with clothes—at least, judging by the size of the bags.
“Go on, my dear Watsons,” chuckled Dot laughing. “Isn’t there a nice-looking young man any place in this mystery?”
“Of course there is,” replied Terry, “and a girl, too.”
“But the house, Dot—it’s perfect! We heard the ghostly footsteps ourselves, and in broad daylight, too!” Sim surprisingly stated.
Dorothy shook her head. “You’re all sleeping idiots! Well, I won’t arouse you. I suppose country people must have some amusement.”