“But suppose those men have come back?”
“They’re too well salted down,” Dorothy flung back at her. “I fancy you’d better stay in here—if you’re alarmed!”
She crossed the hall to the dining room again and hurried through the kitchen with Betty close on her trail. That young person apparently preferred to chance it rather than be left alone.
Dorothy went at once to the back door.
“Who’s there?” she called, as the knocking broke out again.
“It’s Bill Bolton,” returned a muffled voice. “Is that you, Dorothy?”
She drew back the bolt and flung the door open.
“Hello, Bill!” she hailed. “You’re just in time for supper.”
A tall, broadshouldered young fellow wearing golf trousers and an old blue sweater which sported a Navy “N” came into the room. He was bareheaded and his thick, close-cropped thatch of hair was brown. When he smiled, Bill Bolton was handsome. A famous ace and traveller at seventeen, this friend of Dorothy’s had not been spoiled by notoriety. His keen gray eyes twinkled goodnaturedly as he spoke to Dorothy.
“Well, I should say you look pretty much at home,” he grinned. “But then you have a faculty of landing on your feet. And how’s Betty tonight? Thought I’d find you girls in a tight fix and here you are—getting up a banquet. Terry Walters was over at my house when you rang up, so he came with me. He’s outside, playing second line defense. All sereno here, I take it?”