The key turned in the lock and the door swung inward, disclosing Osceola and a leveled automatic. Directly behind him stood Dorothy.
“Gosh!” she exclaimed. “You still here! Where’s the fire?”
The cool draught of air started by the opening of the door momentarily cleared the atmosphere and Bill composed himself with an effort. “In your bed—if this is your room,” he wheezed. “I put it out—darn it. Where’s that man gone? The one who locked me in?”
“Got away,” grunted Osceola. “And the other one, too.”
“Did they have another car?”
“Yes, but Dorothy got to it first and put the engine out of business. She—”
Shrieks and howls from above their heads cut him short. He turned to Dorothy. “You’d better run upstairs and let those maids out so I can get straight with Bill. They’ll wake New Canaan if you don’t. The poor things have been raising the roof ever since those thugs locked them in their rooms. Now they’ve smelled smoke and probably think the house is on fire.”
“Right-o! I’ll go up and quiet ’em.” Dorothy hurried off toward the rear staircase.
Bill leaned against the wall and stared at the mess in the room. “Either the guy we winged, or his pal, set fire to Dorothy’s bedding. He hoped it might give us a job putting it out and they’d have a chance to make their getaway. So far as I’m concerned they did exactly that. You don’t seem to have had any better luck.”
“You’re right on that, too. When Dorothy beat it round the house to scout for their car, I went through the living room window. And it will take some mending, that window! I smashed it with a porch chair.”