“And have them break in the back door while you two are in the front hall? No thanks—I’m coming with you, that’s all.”
Dorothy did not stop to argue. She hurried into the dining room and across the hall to the library, followed by the others.
“Look here,” she whispered, picking up the shotgun. “Slip on your jacket, George. That shirt will show anyone you’ve been in a fight. Betty and I will go into the front sitting room. It’s dark in there. Turn on the hall light and open the door as though everything were all right, and you expected a friend. If it is someone you know, they won’t see us in the sitting room. If it isn’t—and they try to start something, jump back so you’re out of line from the door to that room ... and I’ll fill ’em full of salt!”
“Swell idea! A regular flank attack!” enthused the young man, struggling into his coat. “All set?”
He switched on the hall light. The girls ran into the sitting room. Dorothy stood in the dark with the shotgun pointed toward the hall and saw him turn the key and pull open the door.
“Good evening, George,” whined a high-pitched voice. “Mind if I come in for a minute or two?”
“Walk in, Mr. Lewis. Bad night, isn’t it?”
George’s face showed surprise but he swung the door wide and closed it with a bang as a tall figure, leaning heavily on a cane, shuffled into the lighted hallway. The man’s bent back, rounded shoulders and the rather long white hair that hung from beneath the wide brim of his soft black hat, all bespoke advanced age. Immensely tall, even with his stoop, the old man towered over George, who was all of six feet himself. Although the night was not cold, he was buttoned to the chin in a long fur coat. Dorothy caught sight of piercing black eyes beneath tufted white eyebrows. The long, cadaverous, clean shaven face was a network of fine wrinkles.
“What say?” He cupped a hand behind his ear.
“I said it was a bad night to be out in,” shouted George. “What can I do for you?”