Chapter VI

CORNERED

"There's one thing about it," Bill Bolton told the others seated at the supper table. "This letter that Mr. Conway is supposed to have written to Stoker is at the bottom of all this queer business."

"But that doesn't get us anywhere, does it?" objected Terry. "We must find out what that letter's about. Get hold of the underlying motive, you know."

"Say, you got that out of a detective story--'underlying motive'--I know you did." Betty shook an accusing finger at him.

"Well, what of it? That's the thing we've got to do--and I guess it doesn't matter how you say it."

"Enter Doctor Watson!" Bill grinned and winked at Dorothy. "Look out for your laurels, Miss Sherlock Holmes!"

"Oh, come on--this isn't any jazz number," she returned with spirit. "What's your big idea, Terry?"

"Why, hunt for the letter of course. When we find it, we'll have the--ahem!--underlying motive as well."

"Maybe. Who's going to do the hunting?"

"All of us. We'll each take a room, and--"

Dorothy laughed. "You're some organizer. Suppose you start in with the library. It won't take you more than a week to go through all the books in that room!"

"But listen, Dorothy--"

"Don't be absurd. We'll have a hunt tomorrow, if you want. But Betty and I have got to get home now--and anyway, I know where that letter is."

The four about the table stared at her in unfeigned amazement.

"_Where?_" they cried in chorus.

"I'll give each of you three guesses," she went on mischievously.

"Oh, don't be horrid," pleaded Betty.

"You know we're absolutely up a tree--" chimed in George.

"Come on and tell," invited Bill.

"How did you find out?" added Terry.

"Simply by keeping my eyes and ears open," retorted the object of this wordy bombardment, "and by knowing that two and two make four, not sometimes, but all the time. Every one of you has heard as much about this as I have tonight, and every one, excepting Stoker, has kidded me because I found out some things about the bank robbery and that smuggling gang this summer. Now you won't even take the trouble to think for yourselves. The whereabouts of that letter is clear enough; to be able to put our hands on it, is something quite different."

"Well, I apologize for us all," Bill leaned across the table, "we were only kidding you--weren't we, Betty?"

"Why, of course--she knows that, she's only trying to--"

"Come on, Dorothy," Terry coaxed her with a grin.

"The letter is--?" George asked soberly.

Dorothy pursed her lips, then smiled.

"In your father's copy of Jones' Aircraft Power Plants," she replied calmly. "Find that book, which Mr. Lewis was so keen to locate that he offered to buy this house in order to get it--and you'll have the letter."

"I believe you're right," conceded Bill, "you generally are--but that book is going to take some finding, or I've got another guess coming."

"If there really is a letter and it's in the book," said George, "Mr. Lewis must have hired those men."

"Not necessarily," returned Dorothy, "but I'll admit it's possible."

George's face wore a puzzled frown. "What I can't understand is why outsiders should know about this letter, when I have never heard of it."

"And if your father really wrote a letter to you, and they knew it--why did they wait nearly three months before they tried to steal it?" Bill shook his head. "It's beyond me."

"And why did they start in using strong arm stuff right off the bat?" Terry propounded this question to the table at large.

"Well, I think it is the most mysterious thing I ever heard of," said Betty, struggling to stifle a yawn.

Dorothy stood up.

"Well, we can't talk about it any longer tonight. Betty and I must be getting home." She turned to Bill. "Did you bring some extra gas for _Wispy_?" she asked. "From the sound of things outside, the storm seems to be pretty well over. I don't want to leave the plane in that woodlot all night. Some tramp might come across her and bust something."

"I've brought enough gas to fly back to New Canaan and then some. I'll go with you in the plane."

"How about me?" Betty looked surprised, yet oddly hopeful.

"Terry'll drive you home," said Bill.

George looked disappointed, but voiced no objection to the plan, and Betty merely shrugged.

Dorothy spoke up quickly. "No, I think you'd better stay here tonight, Terry. Somebody ought to stay here with George ... pardon me, Stoker! But as it's Sunday to-morrow, there's no school to get up early for, and Stoker can drive Betty over to my house and come back here. Bill and I will bring her over after breakfast and we can see what we can do to locate that letter."

"Good plan," agreed young Conway enthusiastically. "I'll be back in less than an hour."

"But who's going to wash all these dishes?" grumbled Terry.

"Not afraid to stay here, are you?" said Dorothy.

"Oh, if you put it that way I'll wash them," he retorted.

"You do 'em tonight, and we'll do 'em tomorrow--but we really must be going now."

Ten minutes later, Betty and George chugged out of the drive in his flivver. Terry parked Bill's car in back of the house, then he helped his friend to lift out the three large tins of gasoline they had brought with them from New Canaan.

"I'll take two," announced Bill, "and you'll have to tote the other one, Dorothy."

"Hadn't I better carry it down the hill?" suggested Terry. "It's kind of heavy."

"No, thanks, I can manage it all right." She lifted the can by its handle. "It's not so heavy. Your job is to stay in the house. As it is, I hate leaving you here alone."

Terry waved them off.

"I'll be all right," he scoffed. "I think we've got those guys buffaloed--for the time being, anyway."

"Keep your rifle handy," advised Bill, "and don't open up to anyone except Stoker."

"You bet I won't."

"Good night, then--"

"And good luck," added Dorothy, switching on her flash.

"Good night, both of you--see you in the morning."

He watched their light travel into the orchard and turned back to the empty house.

Dorothy and Bill reached the rear wall of the orchard and came to a stop. Although the storm had passed and with it the driving rain, heavy cloud formations obscured the stars.

"Better hop over the fence, Dorothy," said Bill, "then I'll pass these containers across to you. Gee whiz! It sure is some black night. You came up this way, didn't you?"

"Yep." Dorothy's voice came from the other side where her light was flashing. "Hand over the cans. That's right."

Bill joined her and picked up his load again.

"The ground slopes down to the valley from here," she said. "Drops would be a better word, I guess. It goes down like the side of a roof. Watch your step! This wet grass is slippery as ice."

"I've found that out," said Bill, sitting down suddenly. "Which way is that woodlot trail from here?" He got to his feet. The tins had saved him from a bad tumble.

"Off to the right--down in the valley."

"Then let's steer off that way. Take this hill on the oblique. It's easier walking. By the way, which side of the river have you got the bus parked?"

"River? What river? I didn't know there was one."

"Well, there is. Stone Hill River, it's called. If you didn't cross it going up to Stoker's house, the plane must be on this side."

"You've got a master mind," she retorted and her light went out.

"What's the matter?"

"Followed your example, and sat down."

The light flashed on again.

"Aren't hurt, are you?"

"Don't be personal," she laughed. "How did you know there was a river down in the valley?"

"Why, I brought a map of the Reservation with me--studied it on the way over while Terry drove. We'd never have found that dirt road Stoker's house is on otherwise. Part of it is really in the Reservation, you see. The concrete road from Poundridge Village that runs to South Salem parallels it about a quarter of a mile to the east."

"Route 124," said Dorothy, walking carefully for fear of slipping again. "I know that road. Ever been in the Reservation, Bill?"

"No--have you?"

"When I was a little girl, we used to drive over, for picnics sometimes. I don't remember much about it, though, except that it's a terribly wild place--all rocks and ridges and forest. It covers miles. The state has cut trails and keeps them open, otherwise the woods have been left in their virgin state."

"There are cabins, too, the map calls them shelters," Bill informed her. "The state rents them to camping parties. Well, it's quite wild enough to suit me right here. How are you making out?"

Dorothy was leading the way with her light.

"Fine, thanks. I'm on the level again."

"Glad to hear that you are," chuckled Bill.

"Silly! I mean I'm on fairly level ground again. And look what I've found."

Her light flashed to the left and came to rest on the wreck of a seven passenger closed car.

"Good enough!" exclaimed Bill. "Those thugs won't do any more riding in that bus. See how the car smashed that big tree--it must have torn down the hill like greased lightning!"

They deposited their gasoline tins on the grass and inspected the mass of twisted metal more closely.

"Hello!" ejaculated Dorothy. "Someone's been here before us."

"How do you figure that?"

"The license plates have been removed. I know they were on the car when I sent it down here. I was in such a rush I forgot to take the number, worse luck!"

"Too bad--now we won't be able to trace the owner."

"Oh, yes, we will. Unless we've got an unusually clever mind bucking us, I'll bet we can trace it through the factory number and the number of the engine. Give me a hand, Bill. Let's get the hood up."

"Master mind number two," grunted Bill when Dorothy's flash was turned on the motor. "Him and me both, eh? The number plate has been removed, and the one on the engine chiseled off. Those lads must have had a lovely time doing it, with their hides full of salt."

Dorothy switched off her light with a click.

"_They_ never came down here, in their condition," she said decisively. "It must have been somebody else--probably the man who is back of them--or others of that gang."

"Old Lewis?"

"I don't know. Of course, he himself couldn't have done this--"

"Yes, he's a bit too old to come traipsing down to this valley all alone in the dark."

"Too bad we've showed our light on the hill and around here just now," she said slowly.

"You think they may still be in the offing?"

"I hope not. Chances are they don't know about the plane."

"You'd better go back to the house," he advised. "I can lash two of these tins together and sling them over my shoulder. If there's going to be a shindy, you'll be better off up the hill with Terry."

"Thanks a lot," said Dorothy. "If there's going to be trouble, we'll go it together. Anyway, you'd never be able to find the trail to the woodlot in the dark. It's great of you to suggest carrying on without me, but it just can't be done."

"You sure are a good sport, Dorothy." Bill picked up his tins. "Where do we go from here?"

"Follow me. And the less noise we make, the better."

With Bill close on her heels, she led across the clearing toward the dark line of trees on their left, winding her way around rocky out-croppings and stunted bushes that made traveling in the dark a difficult proceeding.

"Think you can find the cart road?" she heard him whisper. "It's black as your hat without the flash."

"Sure can," she replied cheerfully. "All we have to do is to turn right at the woods and follow them up the valley until we come to it. Quiet, now--if anybody's, watching, we may be able to get by them in the dark."

They had gone another twenty yards or so, when Dorothy stopped suddenly and caught at Bill's arm.

"There's somebody behind that big rock to the left!" she whispered fiercely. "I'm sure I saw something move."

"You sure did, young lady," announced a gruff voice close to their right. "Tell your girl friend not to make a fuss, Mr. Conway. My men are all around you."

A tall figure, hardly more than a blur in the darkness, stepped from behind a tree and came toward them.