“The end of a perfect formula,” declared Bill. “You’d better call the pup Winnite. He’s full of it by this time. Lucky you made the copy, Dorothy.”
“It certainly is!” A voice spoke behind them and they turned to see Ashton Sanborn descending the broad stair. “Doctor Winn tells me the passageway from the Lawson woman’s room comes out into the sunken gardens a quarter of a mile from the house. And I distinctly heard the whirr of an airplane just now from his open window. They’ve made their getaway in fine style by this time.”
“Well—” Dorothy breathed a deep sigh. “I can’t help being glad of it.”
Bill stared at her. “Well!” he mimicked. “I must say you have astonishing reactions!”
“What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Mr. Sanborn. “You’ve done brilliant work on this case, and then, you know, you’ve saved Winnite.”
Dorothy was not impressed. “That’s just it,” she retorted. “If I wasn’t a government servant for the time being, I’d destroy the copy of that terrible formula myself. As it is, I’ve got to turn it over to you!”
Ashton Sanborn laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Fortunes of war, Dorothy. Sorry, but you must, you know.”
“Oh, I know!” She took the sheet of paper from her slipper and handed it to him. “And that,” she announced grimly, “spoils all the fun on this racket.”
Chapter XVIII
THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
Christmas eve was, as Dorothy had predicted, a starry night of frost and blanketing snow. Red candles twinkled in every holly-wreathed window of the Dixon home, and a large fir tree before the house glittered with colored Christmas lights.