On a morning some three months later, the private flying field on the Bolton place was the mecca of a considerable portion of New Canaan’s population. The ridge road and the surrounding meadows were jammed with cars that flaunted license plates of a dozen different states. Although the December sun shone brightly in a cobalt sky, the crowd shivered and stamped on the frozen ground for the winter air was icy. All eyes were turned upward toward an airplane, high above their heads, which swept the sky in immense, horizontal circles.

A small group of people bundled in heavy fur coats stood and chatted by the open doors of the hangar.

“I almost wish they’d come down,” said George Conway. “They must be half-dead for want of sleep, and they’ve already beaten the world’s record by hours. It must be a terrific strain, especially for Dorothy.”

“Oh,” cried Betty Mayo. “Isn’t she marvelous?—and Bill, too!”

“They’re a pair of young idiots!” growled old Mr. Lewis, whose false teeth were chattering. “But I must admit they’re first class sportsmen to stay up all this time for a friend!”

“You said it.” declared Terry Walters, and glanced at his wrist watch. “In exactly one minute, they’ll have been up one hundred and one hours, without refueling. Gosh, it’s wonderful! That motor of your father’s is some humdinger, Stoker!”

“Why, it’s simply adorable!” Betty was brimming over with excitement. “And I just can’t help being glad that that horrid Mr. Joyce and his men are being sent to Sing Sing for years and years and years! It’s too—”

“Here they come!” The crowd yelled and roared and swarmed toward the roped-off enclosure.

Sure enough—At last the big plane was spiralling downward. It landed lightly on the frozen ground and bowled across the field. The crowd surged in, but there was no sign of life, no movement about the plane. Mechanics jerked open the door, and there, side by side, grimy, worn, unkempt, were Dorothy Dixon and Bill Bolton, sleeping like children!

Somehow they were taken into the Bolton’s house and put to bed, where they continued to sleep for twelve hours, while certain anxious gentlemen waited about, impatiently demanding interviews.

The pair eventually looked up from quantities of ham and eggs in the dining room, to greet their visitors.

“Now, I want to talk business,” said the portly man who led the van. “Mr. Conway will not discuss the matter. He refers me to you—”

“Oh, you can talk to her,” said Bill. He motioned to Dorothy. “She’s run this show from start to finish.”

“And what,” asked the portly gentleman, coming at once to the point, “will you take for that motor, Miss Dixon?”

“Hmmm—A hundred hours, without refueling,” remarked Dorothy, thoughtfully buttering a slice of toast. “I hope you’ve given that some thought.”

“I have given it several thoughts. Name a price.”

“A million,” said Dorothy.

“Dollars?”

Bill kicked her under the table.

“Pounds, certainly,” said Dorothy. “I went to England last year, and after I learned how to figure their complicated money, I’ve never been able to unlearn it!”

She smiled benignly upon the company.

Bill nodded. “Dorothy’s some little bargainer, ain’t she?” he said delightedly, with his mouth full.

“Give you a million dollars,” said the portly gentleman.

“Give up your place,” said Dorothy, “and let some of these other gentlemen into the game.”

“A million and a half,” said the portly gentleman, edging closer to the table.

“Make it two million and you win.”

“Done!”

“Thank you,” smiled Dorothy. “Now please make the check payable to George Conway.”

The gentlemen filed out of the room.

“Gee, you’re a whizbang, Dorothy!” Bill exploded as soon as they were alone. “Some Christmas present for Stoker!”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” laughed the girl. “That kick of yours was worth just a million dollars!”

Five minutes later, the kitchen door of the Bolton’s house was flung open and a black face crowned with an aureole of woolly hair peered in. “Has yo’all heard de news, Liza?” panted Uncle Abe in great excitement.

“G’wan home, niggah, I’ze busy makin’ waffle fo’ de chilluns,” retorted the Bolton’s cook. “Golly, but dey sure is hungry!”

“Miss Dorothy done sol’ dat motah fo’ two million dollars. I wuz stickin’ roun’ outside an’ done hear de gen’men talkin’ ’bout it.”

“Lan’s sakes, but dat a pile er money,” said Liza pouring batter on to the hot waffle iron. “How come Marse Bill was able ter build dat engin’? I thought dat de plans was lost?”

“You sho’ has a one-track mind, Liza,” Uncle Abe observed contemptuously. “And dat track spells nuthin’ but kitchen. My young Missy found dem plans! She beat all dose big detecatives to it!”

“Do tell! Whar was dey?”

“In er book, Liza.”

“Shucks, I done heard ’bout de book. Dey warn’t no plans inside it.”

“Huh! Dey sho wuz, too!”

“Whar dey at?”

“Miss Dor’thy done took er knife an’ ripped dat book erpart! Dat little lady is de quality, an’ she sure am smart. De plans was on thin paper, pasted in de back whar de leaves o’ de book am sewed togedder.”

“Do tell!” Liza shook her head. “But what I nevah did un’erstan’ wuz why Marse Joyce tried ter kidnap de other boys and girls.”

“Liza, you sho’ is dumb. It all come out in de trial. Firs’ Marse Joyce think Marse George know ’bout de plans, so his men try ter make him tell. Den when Miss Dor’thy busted up dat party, he know dat de other chilluns would sho’ crab his game if dey wuz let loose ter tell ’bout it.”

“Abe, you is crazy! How dat man goin’ ter keep all dose young folks locked in his house while he try to sell dem plans? De police sure find dem befo’ he’s able ter do dat!”

“No. Liza, you’s wrong agin. Marse Joyce knew a lot about dem plans. Marse Conway had done tol’ him consider’ble about dem, and Marse Joyce done tell de Rooshians what Marse Conway tell him. De Rooshians say dey give him a heap of money jes’ as soon as he build dat engine.”

“An’ Marse Joyce figured he’d beat it to Rooshia jes’ as soon as he could put his han’s on de plans?” said Liza.

“Dat’s right—” nodded the old darky. “You ain’t quite ez dumb ez yo’ looks, niggah. An’ de way Marse George is a-hangin’ roun’ Miss Betty—”

“Yo’all talks too much,” Liza cut him short. “Lan’ sakes! Gossipin’ at yo’ age! Tote dis hyar plate of hot waffles inter der dinin’ room. De young folks am hungry!”

Dorothy’s further adventures will be found in the fourth book of this series, Dorothy Dixon and the Double Cousin.