“There you go again, silly! I’m not going to drive away in the car. I’ve got another plan. Listen! There’s a cellar door, somewhere back of the house I guess. It’s one of the flat kind that you pull up to open. I heard that shutter slam down on it.”
“I suppose you want me to open it?”
“Bullseye!”
“You needn’t be so superior,” Betty’s tone was aggrieved. “What’ll I do if it’s locked?”
“Oh, people ’way out in the country never lock their cellar doors,” Dorothy’s tone was impatient, her mind three jumps ahead.
“But suppose this one is?”
“Wait there until I come back. Hurry now—there’s no telling what’s going on in that room. So long—I’ll be with you in a few minutes. If you hear a crash, don’t scream!”
She raced away and as she reached the corner of the side porch, a quick glance over her shoulder told her that Betty was marching resolutely toward the cellar door.
This time Dorothy skirted the porch and toward the front of the house she came upon a weed-grown drive which swept in a quarter circle toward the road some fifty yards away. A limousine was parked before the entrance to the house. It was empty.
Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief. She hurried past the car and found that the drive ran round the farther side of the house, out to a small garage at the back. The garage doors were open, and inside she spied an ancient Ford. For some reason the sight of the Ford seemed to perturb her. She stood a while in deep thought.