Soon they were under way, and they continued on to the Dixon place without further incident.
“Your shoes are soaking wet, Dorothy. Go up to your room and change them, my dear,” decreed her father. “While you’re doing that, I’ll phone Walters.”
When Dorothy came downstairs her father was in the living room.
“Come over here and sit down,” he said, making room for her on the lounge beside him. “Terry has not come home yet. The family pretend not to be worried—and that’s that. I said nothing about what happened to you on your way back from Silvermine.”
His daughter groaned. “Oh dear—if we could only figure out—but those three red lights seem to cinch things, Daddy.”
“Hardly that. But they do make it look as though this disappearing business is pretty serious—”
Dorothy interrupted him eagerly: “Then there isn’t any doubt in your mind but that our experience at the club this afternoon is accountable for Terry’s disappearance, and my holdup?”
Mr. Dixon, who was filling his pipe, struck a match and puffed contemplatively.
“We can’t jump at conclusions, my dear. My first idea about that plane may be the right one. On the other hand, this business tonight certainly forces one’s suspicions. If Terry doesn’t show up by morning, we’ll turn the matter over to the police and start a thorough search. But I do think it wise to keep the story of the amphibian and its pilot to ourselves.”
Dorothy nodded. “You mean that if we spread our suspicions to the police, they’d let the cat out of the bag and the man would be on his guard?”