“Heaven only knows,” said Dorothy wearily. “I’ll go up and let Terry out and I think the best thing you can do is to phone the state police. With Terry here, we’ve got enough on Mr. John J. Joyce to hold him, now.”
“We sure have. Wonder what the J in John J. Joyce stands for?”
“Well, it will stand for Jay, Jonah and Jinx all in one, if you get the police here before he comes back and sets his men free. By the way, I may be going coo-coo with all this, but it seems to me that I keep hearing shots every now and then. There’s another—hear it?”
“Somebody’s probably potting bunnies in the woods.” Bill seemed unconcerned. “I noticed it just after I got in here. Beat it upstairs now, and I’ll hunt up a telephone.”
Dorothy found the room where Terry was held prisoner by the simple expedient of opening each door as she came to it. The fourth door was locked, but the key was on the outside. It was no surprise to her, upon opening it, to see her friend lying on the bed. A quick glance showed Dorothy that both windows were barred.
Terry sprang up with a glad cry. “It’s sure good to see you!” He gave her a good-natured hug. “How in the world did you manage this?”
Dorothy told him as briefly as possible. “What I want to know,” she said in conclusion, “is how they happened to catch you napping—and what’s become of George Conway and Betty?”
“They didn’t catch me napping,” Terry retorted. “You and Bill had been gone about an hour and I expected Stoker back from taking Betty home any minute. A Ford drove into the garage, there was a bang on the door and a voice sang out—‘Let me in. It’s George.’ Well, I opened up and—”
“It wasn’t George—” supplied Dorothy, as usual going straight to the point. “Joyce and his men nabbed you, of course. That’s plain enough. But where are Betty and George?”
“Search me.”