“No answer at all?” Dorothy inquired anxiously.

“That’s what I said.” Bill’s tone was a bit gruff. He walked over to the range and warmed his hands at the glowing coals.

“What I mean is, could you hear the bell ring in Stoker’s house?”

“Oh, yes, the bell rang. But nobody came to the phone.”

“That’s what I wanted to know.”

“Why? I can’t see that the ringing of the phone bell makes any difference—”

“All the difference,” declared Dorothy. “Never mind why, now. I’ve just told Mrs. Johnson that I had to park Wispy on the other side of the reservation last night, and that some men over there were very disagreeable and we were forced to accept Uncle Abe’s hospitality for the night.”

“We think a heap of Uncle Abe on the reservation,” affirmed the superintendent’s wife. “And don’t you worry about your airplane, Miss Dixon. We’ll see that it don’t come to no harm. My husband had to drive over to Katonah this morning, but I’ll get Sam Watson on the job. He’s in the office right now. Sam!” she called, “come in here.”

A stalwart, broad-shouldered young man walked into the kitchen. His natty uniform marked him a member of the Reservation force.

“Did you want something, Mrs. Johnson?”

“This is Miss Dorothy Dixon of New Canaan, and Mr.—” she hesitated.

“Bolton—Bill Bolton,” supplied that young man.

“The flyers!” Guard Watson’s honest face wore a broad grin. “Heard about you both—who hasn’t? Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.” He shook hands with them and nodded to Uncle Abe.

“It’s like this, Sam,” explained Mrs. Johnson. “Miss Dixon run out of gas last night and her airplane is down to the woodlot just below Raven Rocks in the Stone Hill River valley. Get Eddie, that’s his beat anyway, and keep an eye on the airplane until these young folks pick it up this afternoon. They had trouble with some tramps over there last evenin’ and put up to Uncle Abe’s for the night. Pass the word on to the rest of the boys about them dead beats that’s botherin’ people on the Reservation, will you?”

“I sure will, Mrs. Johnson. If they’re still around, we’ll run ’em off quicker’n greased lightning.”

“You’re very good,” smiled Dorothy. “We saw a couple of suspicious characters hanging round the Cross River entrance when we came over here to headquarters just now.”

“I’ll rout ’em out,” Sam Watson promised. “If they kick up a fuss they’ll put in thirty days behind the bars. Well, I must be hoppin’ it. Glad to have met you folks, I’m sure. So long, everybody!”

With a stiff salute and a broad smile he was gone. They heard him tramp down the hall and then the front door slammed.

“Checkmate to J. J. J.,” murmured Bill.

Dorothy played chess with her father—“Not checkmate—check,” she corrected. “By the way, Mrs. Johnson, I wonder if we can trespass on your good humor still further?”

“Land’s sakes alive! I haven’t done nothing for you yet!” The superintendent’s wife was busy with hot water and a teapot.

“Do you happen to have an extra car that we could borrow for a few hours?”

“Why, sure I have, my dear. But there’s no hurry about your leavin’, is there? A cup of tea, now, to warm you up and some of these nice crisp crullers I made yesterday? Then I’ll get you and Mr. Bolton some dry things to put on and after dinner you can take the car and ride home. How’ll that be?”

Dorothy laughed and shook her head. “You’re awfully kind, really, Mrs. Johnson, but we can’t stay. We’ve got an appointment that just can’t be broken.”

“But your wet clothes, Miss Dixon?”

“Thanks for your offer, but we aren’t so wet now. I will have a cup of tea if I may, although we only finished breakfast a little while ago.”

“And don’t forget those crisp crullers,” protested Bill with a grin. “I certainly do love homemade crullers, ma’am.”

“An’ dey ain’t nuffin’ better ’an de ones Miz Johnson makes,” chuckled Uncle Abe. “I’se tasted ’em befo’ an’ dis hyar nigger knows!”

Mrs. Johnson beamed delightedly.

“Even if I do say so who shouldn’t,” she remarked modestly, “this batch came out pretty good. But are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay for Sunday dinner? We’re having fish chowder, chicken friccassee, with dumplin’s, and a pumpkin pie!”

“You sure do make my mouth water,” groaned Bill. “I only wish we could stop, and meet your husband, Mrs. Johnson. If you’ll keep the invitation open, we’d love to take advantage of it some other time.”

The good lady passed them their tea and a plate heaped with golden brown crullers.

“We’ll make it next Sunday noon then. Our children are all married, with homes of their own. Mr. Johnson and I miss not having young folks round the house. It’ll make it seem like the good old times again, if you come. Don’t forget now, next Sunday.”

“We’ll be here with bells on, Mrs. Johnson,” promised Bill.

“And we’ll try not to look like a couple of tramps then,” added Dorothy.

“You’ll always be welcome, no matter what you wear,” declared their hostess. “I’ll make another pumpkin pie for you.”

They chatted for ten minutes or so and then bade Mrs. Johnson goodbye.

“Uncle Abe will take you out to the garage,” she said in parting. “Take the Buick. You’ll need a closed car on a day like this.”

When the kitchen door had shut out the smiling, motherly figure, and they were following the old darky along the drive, Dorothy turned to Bill.

“And they say that New Englanders are not hospitable! Why, they’re the most hospitable people in America if you really know them!”

“Country people, no matter what part of the United States they live in, are generally friendly. Living in cities, where your next door neighbor is a stranger, makes a person suspicious. But I’ve found that most honest-to-goodness Americans will do a lot for a person in trouble.”

“Dere’s de kyar, Missy,” Uncle Abe interrupted apologetically. “Reckon dis hyar ol’ nigger’ll wish yo’all goodbye an’ mo’ comferble beds ternight.”

Dorothy caught the old fellow’s hand and held it between her own.

“Uncle Abe,” she said, looking straight into his shining eyes, “do you really like living up there in the woods, all by yourself?”

“Waal, dis nigger ain’t used ter much, Missy,” he said slowly, “an’ de cabin am a heap better ’an a barn er no roof atall. But, it sho’ do get mighty lonesome, ’times.”

“I bet it does. How would you like to live in quarters over our garage and work for my father? He was saying only a day or so ago that what with driving the cars and all Arthur has too much to do around the place. We need a gardener and general handy man. The job is yours if you’ll take it—and I don’t mind saying I’ll feel badly if you don’t.”

Ol’ Man River winked back the tears with a brave effort, although the little wrinkles at the corners of his mouth puckered in a smile.

“Yo’ sho’ is good ter dis hyar nigger, Missy!”

“And you want to come? I won’t take no for an answer—”

“It do me good fer ter hear you sesso, Missy. Kaze yo’ sho’ is de qual’ty and dis hyar ol’ nigger never done had no real fambly ’time he come No’th.”

Bill winked at Uncle Abe.

“And if that nocount Dixon family don’t treat you right, you come right across the road to my house.”

“Spect I’ll git ’long tollerbul well on Miss Dor’thy’s side,” he chuckled.

“Well, what’s the good word now, Dorothy?” Bill motioned toward the Buick. “It’s about time we beat it over to Stoker’s, don’t you think?”

“I do think,” returned Dorothy. “And that’s why we aren’t going over there.”

“But surely—”

“But nothing. The boys aren’t there or they’d have answered the phone. If you hadn’t heard the bell ring we could be fairly sure the wire was cut and that they were holding the house in a state of siege, so to speak. Now we know they aren’t there.” Bill did not seem impressed.

“If that line of reasoning is logical, I’m as cold on the right answer as a water tank in winter. How do you know Joyce’s men haven’t got them tied up in the house?”

“Because at this stage of the game, Joyce would hardly do that and leave them there for their friends to find. And if his men were still in the house, they’d be sure to answer the telephone. You and Uncle Abe get right into that Buick now. We are going to take a run up to Mr. John J. Joyce’s place.”

Bill did not attempt to hide his astonishment.

“Gee, whiz, Dorothy?—you’ve got a whale of a lot of nerve!”

Dorothy shrugged and looked steadily at Bill. “Well, are you game?”

For answer he followed her into the car.

“Pretty much like jumping feet first into the lion’s den,” he commented, “but considering your middle name is Daniel, or ought to be, I dare say we’ll have a roaring good time of it!”

“Stop talking jazz, Bill. How about you, Uncle Abe?”

The old man already lounged back on the rear seat.

“Reverse dis hyar injine inter de drive, Miss Dor’thy—an’ when yo’all turned round I’se gwine ter show yo’ where we’se a-gwine.”

Dorothy, smiling over the steering wheel, backed out of the garage and got the Buick headed toward the road.

“Well, Uncle?” she prompted.

“D’reckly in front of us, way over yonder on de far hill ez er big house.”

“The white one in the trees?” asked Bill.

“Yaas, suh, de only one any pusson kin see from hyar. Dat am Hilltop, Marse Conway’s ol’ place.”

“Where Mr. Lewis lives now!”

“Eggzackly so, ma’am. Marse Joyce’s place ez jus’ back er yonder.”

“Bet he calls it, ‘The Den,’” said Bill.

Uncle Abe cackled, “No, suh, Marse Bill—hee-hee—dat house done called ‘Nearma’.”

“Near ma?” repeated Dorothy in a puzzled tone. “There are some queer Indian names in this part of the country, but that’s a new one on me.”

“’Tain’t Injun, Missy. Dat dere hones’ ter goodness ’Merican. Marse Joyce’s ol’ Ma uster lib cross de ridgeroad. Dat how he come ter name de house ‘Near Ma’.”

“That old scurmudgeon! I don’t believe it!” cried Bill in an explosion of laughter.

“Dat am de spittin’ trufe, Marse Bill. De ol’ lady am daid, but he still call de place Nearma jus’ de same.”

“How do we get to it, Uncle?” Dorothy asked after a moment.

“Run out de entrance till we come ter de turnpike, Missy. Den right, long dat road to Cross River. From de village yonder we follers de road ter Lake Waccabuc, but we don’t hafter travel dat far.”

“Good enough.” The car swung round the side of the house and into the road. “I guess Sam got rid of the Watchers by the Gate—there’s nobody at the entrance.”

They swept into the highroad and on through the pre-revolutionary hamlet of Cross River. Half a mile further, as they were speeding along the top of a wooded ridge, Uncle Abe spoke again.

“Dat stone fence long de road ter de right b’long ter Hilltop,” he pointed out. “De house am set way back from de road behin’ de trees. Round de bend ahead yo’all gwine ter see ’nother higher wall, dat starts by three white birches. Yonder am where Marse Joyce’s land begins.”

“And what’s on the farther side of the Joyce property?”

“Dere ain’t nuffin, Missy, ’cept jes’ mo’ dese hyar woods.”

“Fine! And I suppose, after being up here for nearly ten years, you can find your way about in those woods?”

“Sho’ can, Missy. Ef dere’s er rabbit hole dis nigger a’ missed in dem woods, I wanter know.”

“Better and better. You’re a marvellous help, Uncle Abe.”

“What do you plan to do? Park the car near the road, hike back through the woods and cut over toward the house from that side?” Bill was not enthusiastic.

“Just about that.”

“And when you sight the historic mansion?”

“I’m going into the house.”

“Oh, yes, you are...”

“Oh, yes, I am!”

“And how do you expect to do that without being nabbed right off the bat?”

“Last night you told me I asked too many questions, Bill. And Uncle Abe says ‘what’s food for the goose is swell eating for the gander...’!”