“Almost,” replied his friend, “but not quite. This is number fifty-seven.”
That night at dinner the main topic of conversation among the four young people was the winged cartwheels, as Dorothy had named them. They had arrived home too late to do anything about tracing the car license, and after the meal was finished, Bill and Osceola noticed that the girls looked tired and decided to leave even earlier than they had planned. They walked across the ridge road to the Bolton place opposite, and were in bed and asleep by eleven o’clock.
The telephone in Bill’s room awoke him with a start. He glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch, and caught up the receiver. It was then exactly ten minutes past two.
“Bill! Oh, Bill—is that you?”
“Speaking, Dorothy. Anything wrong?”
“Oh, Bill—please come quickly—those men have got Deb and—”
The wire went dead. Bill guessed it had been cut. Dropping the receiver, he snatched an automatic from under his pillow, leaped from his bed, and raced for the hall.
Chapter III
STOLEN!
Bill burst into the hall and almost collided with Osceola, who had just stepped out.
“What’s the matter?” hissed the Seminole. “The phone woke me.”