“Well, what shall it be?” she inquired when he joined her. “Your ship or mine, first?”
“Mine, I think. None of the three has been off the apron of the hangar since I left for Europe. Frank has been looking after them. He’s a great old feller, you know. When we brought him back from New York he didn’t know a fork from a gadget. Now he’s chauffeur, general factotem around the house, and practical mechanic for me. He knows his job all right, but my boats will need more overhauling than yours.”
“Which plane shall you use for this work?”
“The Ryan M-l, that the bank gave me after that Martinelli business. She certainly is a smart little bus—can fly rings around anything in this neck of the woods. Hello—” he broke off as they came down the drive, “somebody’s had a breakdown.”
Drawn up at the side of the ridge road stood a green coupe of the type motor car manufacturers advertise as “de luxe model.” As they came in sight, a young man crawled out from beneath the body.
“Why, that’s Mr. Tracey,” said Dorothy. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, I met him at Mr. Holloway’s house one night. Isn’t he the old boy’s secretary?”
“Yes, he is. He’s quite nice. Dad sees a lot of Mr. Holloway, you know.”
The secretary, tall and sleekly blond, was looking ruefully down at his grey flannel trousers, now streaked with the dirt of the roadway.
“Good morning, Miss Dorothy,” he greeted, clipping his words in a precise manner. “Afraid I’m not exactly presentable.” Then for the first time, he appeared to notice Bill. “Hello, Bolton,” he said affably. “You’re quite a stranger around here.”