The newcomer limped a couple of paces into the room. His left arm and one leg were swathed in bandages.

“What price rock salt?” remarked Bill pleasantly, still reaching toward the ceiling.

Despite her qualms, Dorothy could not help smiling. The bald man’s face became scarlet with fury.

“Another crack like that and I’ll give you a taste of something harder than rock salt,” her roared. “And when I get through with him that guy who was so free with his shotgun last night will wish he’d never been born!”

Bill ignored this outburst. “That gat was my only weapon,” he announced without rancor. “This house is in New York State, so if you want to burn in Sing Sing, shoot—I’m tired of holding up my arms.”

He lowered his hands and thrust them into his trousers pockets.

The bald man looked daggers but he did not pull the trigger. Instead he turned on his partner.

“Why don’t you do something, Chick?” he growled. “You know I’m laid up—oughta be in bed right now, for that matter.”

“Say, Eddie,” complained the burly fellow, “I’m stiff as a board myself—I got peppered all down my back and you know it.”

“Aw, quit yer grousin’. You can still move around. Tie ’em up and we’ll dump ’em somewhere till the boss gets back.”

“Yeah? An’ what do we use fer rope?”

Eddie scratched his head with the butt of his revolver and hobbled over to an armchair. “Stick that gat in yer pocket, Chick,” he ordered as he lowered himself carefully into the deep cushions. “I’ve got ’em covered. Beat it into the kitchen—that fat dinge in there’s got plenty of clothesline. Help yerself and tell her I’ll come in an’ bump her off, if she gets nasty!”

Chick pocketed his revolver and started to walk stiffly across the room when Liza’s ample figure appeared in the doorway. In her hands she bore a wooden mixing bowl, brimming with cake batter. The whites of her eyes gleamed dangerously, as she glared at Chick; then she waddled into the room and halted just behind Eddie’s chair.

“I done heard what yo’all said jes’ now, bald man—” She shook her head slowly from side to side and stared down at the gangster’s hairless pate. “Seems ter me you was talkin’ ’bout bumpin’ somebuddy!”

With his gun covering the three prisoners, Eddie was unable to look up at her. Chick undoubtedly hailed Liza’s appearance as relief from the painful necessity of a walk to the kitchen. He sat down on the edge of a chair opposite Eddie and scowled at her sourly. Eddie took up the conversation with the angry woman behind him.

“That’s right, nigger,” he chuckled hoarsely. “We want some clothesline, to tie up these here nuisances—an’ if you don’t cough some up right now—I’ll bump you off, see?”

“Reckon you got your names mixed—” Without warning Liza brought the solid mixing bowl down upon his unprotected skull.

Eddie collapsed beneath the forceful blow and as he crumpled to the floor, Liza flung the bowl and its contents in Chick’s face. Then with an agility surprising in one so cumbersomely made, she catapulted herself at the astonished ruffian. Over went his chair and they crashed in a tangled heap of broken furniture, waving legs and cake batter.

Bill broke into a roar of laughter, but Dorothy wasted no time in being amused at this spectacle. She dove for Bill’s gun which Eddie had not bothered to retrieve. She ran over the struggling pair on the floor and held the muzzle to Chick’s head.

“Stop fighting!” she commanded. “Stop it at once—”

Chick sat up and tried to scrape the batter out of his eyes. “I ain’t fightin’,” he growled, “I’m half blind and I’m fair smothered. An’ if me back ain’t broke it oughter be! Take that Mack truck offen my legs—I can’t move, much less put up a scrap!”

“Get up, Liza!” Dorothy had to smile at the fellow’s plight. With Bill’s help she got the stout negress planted on her feet again. Uncle Abe stood guard with a poker over Eddie. That glum gentleman was heralding his return to consciousness with the most remarkable series of coughing grunts.

“This sure is the craziest rough house I ever got mixed up in,” laughed Bill. “Old Baldy over there sounds like a French pig rooting for truffles—”

Dorothy grinned absent-mindedly, her thoughts on the next move to be made.

“We’ll let dese two pigs burrer an’ grunt down cellar,” declared Liza, straightening her turban and smoothing down her apron. “Dere’s a empty storeroom down dere—it’s got a strong door an’ a good bolt, too. Gimme a gun, please Miss Dor’thy. Me an’ Uncle Abe can ’tend ter dis white trash.”

The negress walked over to Eddie, who stared about the room, a dazed expression on his face.

“Git up an’ come along.”

Then as Eddie continued to look at her vacantly, she picked him up as if he were a baby and draped him over her broad shoulders.

“Yo’all go first, Liza,” said Uncle Abe. He prodded Chick with the gun he had taken from her. “Him an’ me’ll be right behin’.”

Dorothy and Bill watched the odd procession pass from the room.

“Whew!” she exclaimed. “That was a hectic five minutes. But how did you happen to be in here?”

“Got tired of sticking round outside, so slipped in by that window. Eddie was asleep at the time, but he woke up right afterward. Then you and Uncle Abe walked in—and you know the rest. Say, it must be Terry these guys nabbed. Wonder what’s become of Stoker and Betty?”

“Heaven only knows,” said Dorothy wearily. “I’ll go up and let Terry out and I think the best thing you can do is to phone the state police. With Terry here, we’ve got enough on Mr. John J. Joyce to hold him, now.”

“We sure have. Wonder what the J in John J. Joyce stands for?”

“Well, it will stand for Jay, Jonah and Jinx all in one, if you get the police here before he comes back and sets his men free. By the way, I may be going coo-coo with all this, but it seems to me that I keep hearing shots every now and then. There’s another—hear it?”

“Somebody’s probably potting bunnies in the woods.” Bill seemed unconcerned. “I noticed it just after I got in here. Beat it upstairs now, and I’ll hunt up a telephone.”

Dorothy found the room where Terry was held prisoner by the simple expedient of opening each door as she came to it. The fourth door was locked, but the key was on the outside. It was no surprise to her, upon opening it, to see her friend lying on the bed. A quick glance showed Dorothy that both windows were barred.

Terry sprang up with a glad cry. “It’s sure good to see you!” He gave her a good-natured hug. “How in the world did you manage this?”

Dorothy told him as briefly as possible. “What I want to know,” she said in conclusion, “is how they happened to catch you napping—and what’s become of George Conway and Betty?”

“They didn’t catch me napping,” Terry retorted. “You and Bill had been gone about an hour and I expected Stoker back from taking Betty home any minute. A Ford drove into the garage, there was a bang on the door and a voice sang out—‘Let me in. It’s George.’ Well, I opened up and—”

“It wasn’t George—” supplied Dorothy, as usual going straight to the point. “Joyce and his men nabbed you, of course. That’s plain enough. But where are Betty and George?”

“Search me.”

Bill burst into the room and stood breathless before them.

“Did you get the police?” asked Dorothy.

“Got headquarters all right. But what do you think’s happened?”

“Spill it, Bill. This is no guessing bee,” said Terry.

“The sergeant told me they’d had a phone call from Lewis. The old man was frantic. Joyce and his gang were trying to break into his house. The whole caboodle from headquarters are up there now, rounding up John J. Joyce and Company.”

“That accounts for the shots we heard,” cried Dorothy. “Get on your rubbers, Terry. We’re going to hike over to Mr. Lewis’s place right now. I want to be in at the finish.”

“And I,” added Bill, “want to find out what this mess is about!”

They raced downstairs and stopping only long enough to tell Liza and Uncle Abe of this new development, set off for the Lewis property adjoining.

Following hasty directions given them by the darkies, they hurried along a path which led them to a gate in a high wall. The gate was not locked and they continued along the path which crossed the Lewis estate. Presently the dim shape of a large white house appeared through the mist.

“Halt!” A gruff voice arrested them as they were about to ascend the steps at the side entrance. A state trooper barred their way. “Who are you—and what do you want?”

“We are friends of Mr. Lewis,” said Dorothy. She explained the circumstances of their arrival.

“Well, we’ve just sent Joyce and his men to the lockup. The whole crew of ’em. We corralled ’em proper. They’d busted into the house, you know, and it sure would have been a mixup if this fly cop that horned in on the Joyce bunch hadn’t clapped his gat to Joyce’s head and held up their game until we got here.”

“Oh, that must have been Michael Michaels—the private inquiry agent who came to Uncle Abe’s last night,” said Bill. “We’d like to go in the house, officer.”

“O.K. with me. There’s some kind of a pow-wow goin’ on in the living room. I’ll take you in there.”

He opened the door and led them across the square hall into the living room. Here they found a surprise awaiting them.

“Betty! George!” cried Dorothy. She flew across the room to her friend. “I’m so glad you’re safe. How did you get here?”

“Oh, darling! It’s too exciting for words!” gurgled Betty as they hugged each other. “And George was so brave—he—”

“Mr. Lewis and his chauffeur stopped our Lizzie last night,” broke in Stoker. “Told us Joyce and his men were likely to hold us up down the road. So we left the Ford and came over here with Mr. Lewis. And we’ve been here ever since.”

“Listen, George!” said that old gentleman, and both girls giggled. “Hadn’t you better introduce your friends? This young lady in overalls is Miss Dixon, I take it?”

“She certainly is,” smiled Stoker and performed the necessary introductions.

The other men in the room proved to be Michael Michaels and an inspector of the state police. For a few minutes everybody seemed to be talking at once. Bill told George and Mr. Lewis of his adventures with Dorothy, while Terry explained his capture by the Joyce gang to the inspector and Michaels.

“Listen!” said Dorothy and threw a reproving glance at the others’ unsuppressed smiles—“Will somebody please tell me what Mr. Joyce has been trying to steal from Stoker?”

“Why, that’s so,” interjected Mr. Lewis, “you have no idea, of course—”

“No, except that it’s probably mixed up with that book, Aircraft Power Plants, I think it’s called—”

The old gentleman looked at her in unfeigned astonishment. “Listen, Michaels!” he cried. “She says this business is connected with that book. Pretty good guess, eh?”

“Certainly is,” returned the detective. “But the book is a mystery in itself, and one we haven’t yet solved.”

“But what was Joyce after?” interrupted Bill with a show of impatience.

“The plans, of course,” said Stoker Conway.

“But what plans?”

“The plans of my father’s new aircraft engine. I knew nothing about it until Mr. Lewis told me last night.”

“Where are the plans, and what has the book to do with them?” broke in Dorothy.

“Listen, young lady,” began Mr. Lewis, when Michaels the detective stopped him with a gesture.

“Better let me tell them, sir,” he suggested. “These young people have a right to know.”

The old gentleman nodded approval and the detective, after biting off the end of a cigar, continued to talk while the others grouped about him. “About two weeks ago,” he said, “Mr. Lewis called at my New York office. There he told me the following story. Six weeks before his death, Mr. Conway came over here and told Mr. Lewis that he had perfected plans for an aircraft motor which would develop very high power on a very small consumption of gasoline.”

“That’s just what all the inventors are after now,” interposed Bill.

“Why, I should say so!” cried Dorothy. “If Wispy’s motor didn’t lap up the gas like a thirsty camel, I’d never have been forced to land in that woodlot yesterday afternoon!”

“All very interesting, I’m sure—” Terry’s voice was sarcastic. “But do let’s hear what Mr. Michaels is trying to tell us!”

“That’s all right,” smiled the detective. “Let’s see—where was I? Oh, yes, the motor: well, the inventor told Mr. Lewis that his partner and sales agent had ruined him financially, and that now he was convinced that he’d been swindled, and that Joyce was a crook. Mr. Lewis suggested Mr. Conway take the matter to the courts, and offered to advance money for legal expenses. Mr. Conway said he hadn’t sufficient evidence for a case; that Joyce had covered his tracks too well. Then he spoke about the plans for this new motor he’d just completed. He said that Joyce knew about it and was trying to get control of the thing; but that outside of stealing the plans outright, Joyce could do nothing, as the partnership had been dissolved. And at the same time he told Mr. Lewis that he knew he was suffering from an incurable disease and could live but a few months longer at most.”

“Listen, Michaels—let me tell it,” interrupted old Lewis. “You are wandering all over the place.... Your father, George, said that should he have the new motor built, Joyce would undoubtedly make trouble, and he, Conway, wanted to die in peace. He told me he was going to entrust me with the plans and would send them to me after he had made some slight changes in them. And he said that he would send me his check to cover the expense of building and exploiting the engine. ‘After I’m gone, you attend to it for George,’ he said. ‘That boy has no mechanical ability, and he’s too young to market a thing like this motor. Joyce or other wolves like him would rob him of it in twenty four hours.’ And that, was the last time I saw John Conway alive.”

The old gentleman pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose violently. “He wouldn’t see me when I called, nor would he mention the plans over the phone. He died while I was in Boston on business. When I got back the next day, I found a package from him waiting for me. Of course, I thought it would contain the plans and his check. When I opened it up I found nothing but a book—Aircraft Power Plants, by a man named Jones. I was naturally surprised, and searched its pages from cover to cover, but found no papers of any kind. I’ve even read every word of it since then. And its pages have been tested for invisible ink. But I’ve had my trouble and pains for nothing.”

“I wonder why Father didn’t tell me of those plans?” George remarked rather wistfully.

“That I can’t explain, my boy. As you know now, I thought you had them. Either that you had removed them from the book before it left your house, or that your father had changed his mind and given them to you. Anyway, I decided to await developments. Nothing happened until Joyce, who had been in Europe since Conway’s death, returned home a couple of weeks ago. He came to see me and asked me outright if I knew anything about Conway’s airplane motor plans. I never liked nor trusted Joyce, but I saw no harm in telling him the truth. For of course I figured that George must have set the wheels in motion for the sale of the motor long before. Joyce could do nothing about it at this late date.”

“But to my astonishment, the man told me the motor had not been marketed—that he would have heard if any company had bought it. ‘Either that boy’s got the plans,’ he said, ‘or Conway had two copies of the book and sent you the wrong one—’ I didn’t understand how the book came into it and told him so. ‘Conway always sent important papers through the mail by placing them between the pages of a book,’ he assured me. ‘Thought they would travel safer that way.’

“Well, he changed the subject then, and left. I got nervous about what I’d told him, and hired Michaels to watch the fellow. Michaels dug up a lot of things about Joyce, and managed to get himself placed on his staff of roughnecks. If he could have been in two places at once, all this trouble over at the Conway house last night would never have come off.”

Dorothy spoke from her place on the couch beside Betty. “How did you happen to go there last night?”

“I wanted to find out if George really had another copy of the book. Later I learned from Michaels that Joyce’s men had tried to torture the boy into telling them where the plans were—and that then he intended to kidnap him. I was on my way over there to warn him when we met on the road. He wanted to put young Walters wise, but I was sure the Joyce gang wouldn’t hurt his friend. I had promised Michaels not to go ahead on my own hook until I saw him. Perhaps I was wrong, but I did what I thought was best for George’s interests. I’ve heard since that they just about tore the house apart, looking for the other copy of that book!”

“Do you happen to have the copy that was sent you, here in the house?” asked Dorothy.

“Yes—right here, on the table.” Michaels handed it to her.

Dorothy pored over the book for a few minutes, then laid it down. “Mr. Lewis, do you mind if I take it home with me?”

“Why, of course not—keep it as long as you wish.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “Now, you gentlemen want to plan about what to do with Joyce and Co., and Bill and I have some gas to buy and a plane to fly home. So I’ll say au revoir for the present!”