A light flashed on as Connie stepped into the booth. She dropped the nickel into the coin box and waited for the clear dial tone. When she heard it, she carefully whirled the numbers.
Almost at once a gruff voice barked in her ear:
“Police station!”
Connie was a trifle nervous, for she never before had talked to anyone at the police station. However, she forced herself to speak slowly and relate exactly what had happened.
“Please come as fast as you can,” she urged. “Veve McGuire and I were coasting at Kelly’s Hill. She hooked a ride with her sled on an automobile—and was carried away.”
The police sergeant seemed to grasp the situation instantly. He barked: “Did you get the car license number?”
“No-o,” Connie admitted, trying hard to remember. “The first two letters were EB—the same as Edith Bailey’s initials. But I can’t remember the numbers. It was a large gray sedan.”
“Going what direction?”
“West.” Of this Connie was certain. “It was headed up the hill and went on toward the country.”
“Highway 20,” said the police sergeant, making notes on his pad. “The girl’s name is Veve McGuire. Address?”