She glared at me. The phone rang. She picked it up, listened a moment after she’d said, “Hello,” and then said, “Okay, we’ll be on our way.”
She hung up. “Philip has chartered a plane. That and the one you brought from Reno will take us all. We start at once. Donald, what was in that letter?”
I started for the door. “Let’s get going.”
Chapter Seventeen
Bertha went in the plane with me. The others followed in the plane Philip had chartered. At the last minute, Paul Endicott decided he’d go along, too, just for the ride.
The drone of the plane motor lulled me to sleep shortly after the take-off. Occasionally, Bertha would prod me into wakefulness with questions. I’d answer in muttered monosyllables and return to the warm comfort of sleep.
“You mustn’t fight with Arthur Whitewell, Donald.”
“Uh huh.”
“You little devil, Bertha knew you weren’t falling for a woman. You fall in love with them all right, and I mean really in love, but you’re more in love with your profession than with any woman. Answer me, Donald. Isn’t that right?”
“I guess so.”