“We are friends of Mr. Lewis,” said Dorothy. She explained the circumstances of their arrival.
“Well, we’ve just sent Joyce and his men to the lockup. The whole crew of ’em. We corralled ’em proper. They’d busted into the house, you know, and it sure would have been a mixup if this fly cop that horned in on the Joyce bunch hadn’t clapped his gat to Joyce’s head and held up their game until we got here.”
“Oh, that must have been Michael Michaels—the private inquiry agent who came to Uncle Abe’s last night,” said Bill. “We’d like to go in the house, officer.”
“O.K. with me. There’s some kind of a pow-wow goin’ on in the living room. I’ll take you in there.”
He opened the door and led them across the square hall into the living room. Here they found a surprise awaiting them.
“Betty! George!” cried Dorothy. She flew across the room to her friend. “I’m so glad you’re safe. How did you get here?”
“Oh, darling! It’s too exciting for words!” gurgled Betty as they hugged each other. “And George was so brave—he—”
“Mr. Lewis and his chauffeur stopped our Lizzie last night,” broke in Stoker. “Told us Joyce and his men were likely to hold us up down the road. So we left the Ford and came over here with Mr. Lewis. And we’ve been here ever since.”
“Listen, George!” said that old gentleman, and both girls giggled. “Hadn’t you better introduce your friends? This young lady in overalls is Miss Dixon, I take it?”
“She certainly is,” smiled Stoker and performed the necessary introductions.