“I’ll help you,” offered Betty, hopping out of her chair.
“That’s a good plan,” decreed Dorothy. “While you’re starting things in the kitchen, I’d like to use the phone, if I may.”
“There it is, on that table in the corner,” said George. “Hop to it. I’ll drive you home later in the flivver.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got to have gas for my plane. We’ll talk it over at supper, shall we?”
She took up the telephone and the others hurried from the room.
Presently she joined them in the kitchen.
“I called up your mother, Betty, and told her you were spending the night with me,” she announced. “Dad is away, so I got hold of Bill Bolton and he’ll be over here in about twenty minutes.”
“Oh, fine—” began Betty and stopped short as an electric bell on the wall buzzed sharply.
For a moment they stared at it in startled silence. Then George spoke. “Somebody’s ringing the door bell,” he said slowly.