Dorothy and Bill lifted the unconscious man on to Mrs. Lawson’s bed. Then while young Bolton undressed him, Dorothy telephoned. She then gave Bill a hasty account of the night’s happenings.
“If Gretchen had only stayed put in her room, I’d have caught Martin Lawson, anyway,” she lamented.
“Mr. Jordan and the bunch outside will take care of that pair,” promised Bill. “Fetch a wet towel from the bathroom. This bird is breathing pretty hard.”
Dorothy sped to obey, talking the while. “Not Uncle Michael!” she called back in astonishment.
“Yep. Uncle Michael showed up in Sanborn’s New York office this morning, all on his own.”
“What was he doing—wanting to turn state’s evidence and peach on his pals?” She brought in the wet towel and laid it on Tunbridge’s hot forehead.
“Nothing like that, kid.” Bill was grinning. “Give another guess.”
“Then he wasn’t really a member of that gang with the numbers?”
“Sure he was—in good standing, too.”
“Oh, spill it, Bill! What do you think I’m made of, anyway?”