“You do write gruesome stories then?” Irene asked anxiously.
He studied her face for a moment before he answered. “That depends on your definition of the word. I never make it a point to dwell on the details of a murder. Suffice it to tell under what circumstances the body was found——”
“Don’t talk about it, please! You sound so cold and matter-of-fact, as if you didn’t feel it at all. Your flying stories are so different!”
“They were written from first-hand knowledge,” he explained. “I had a pilot’s license and flew with a friend of mine across the continent. There was story material and plenty of it!” He went on for fifteen minutes discussing his experiences with the girls.
Dale Meredith had a knack of telling stories so that the listeners lived his adventures with him. Judy and Irene sat enthralled. They were both imagining themselves scrambling out of a wrecked plane in their own Allegheny Mountains when the door opened, and in walked Emily Grimshaw! Dale and Judy both greeted her, but when Irene looked up and smiled the old lady started back as if she had seen a ghost. Judy, thinking she must be ill, helped her into a chair.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked solicitously.
“There’s a bottle.” Emily Grimshaw made a gesture with her hand. “Pour me out a bit. I need a stimulant. I must be getting old. Good lord! I must be seeing things!”
She took the glass that Judy held out to her and swallowed the contents in three great gulps, then rubbed her eyes and looked at Irene again.
“Guess the stuff is too strong,” she muttered and slumped in her chair.
Irene clutched Dale’s arm. “She isn’t going to die?” she asked in a panicky whisper.