Chapter VI
WHO’S WHO?
The December evening was cold and wet as Dorothy and Ashton Sanborn crossed the sidewalk and entered their taxi-cab. The day had been a dreary one, and now a dense, drizzling fog lay low upon the great city. Dun-colored clouds drooped over a muddy Park Avenue as they were swept up town. On the side streets the electrics were but misty splotches of diffused light which threw feeble circular glimmers upon the slimy pavements. The yellow glare from shopwindows streamed out into the chill, vaporous air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thoroughfare. To Dorothy there was something eerie and ghostlike in the endless procession of faces which flitted across these narrow bars of light. She was not in any respect a timid girl, but the dull, heavy evening, and the prospect of the strange venture in which they were engaged, combined to make her feel nervous and depressed.
At 59th street the taxi turned west and rolled steadily along the shining black asphalt, stopping now and then for the red lights. They crossed 5th Avenue and swung into Central Park. Dorothy caught glimpses of the gaunt shapes of trees in silhouette against the cold fog. She closed her eyes and resolutely turned her thoughts to the events of the afternoon.
So engrossed had she become in the contemplation of her delightful buying orgy that she was surprised when their cab pulled up with a jerk and Ashton Sanborn opened the door.
“Muffle up in your fur collar, Dorothy,” he said. “The fewer people who see your face, the better.”
Now that the ordeal had arrived, Dorothy’s nervousness vanished. She buried the lower part of her face in the soft fur collar and walked at Mr. Sanborn’s side into the lobby of the apartment house.
A darkey in brass buttoned uniform stood by the elevator. Two shining rows of white teeth flashed in a smile of greeting for the detective.
“All the way up, George.” Mr. Sanborn gave the order as the car started upward.
“Yaas, suh, boss, I understand.” George smiled again, and presently the elevator stopped.
With Mr. Sanborn in the lead, Dorothy walked along a corridor and up a narrow flight of stairs. The detective opened a door at the top and the damp cold of the night swept in upon them. A moment later they were crossing the flat roof of the apartment house toward a small group who stood near the parapet at the roof’s edge. As they drew nearer, she saw that the group awaiting them was composed of Bill Bolton, Howard, and a stranger. They were standing beside a small crane.
The secret service man nodded a greeting and turned to Dorothy. “We are directly above Janet’s window, which is three flights below,” he said quietly, and glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch.
“And you’re going to let me down with the auto-crane?” she asked with just a tremor of excitement in her voice.
“That’s the idea. It’s perfectly safe. Bill tested it this afternoon.”
Dorothy gave a little laugh. “Oh, I’m not scared, Uncle Sanborn.”
“I know you aren’t, my dear.”
“When do I take off?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“All set now, then, please.”
“Good. You’ll go in a minute. Here are last instructions. You will seat yourself in that swinging seat that Bill is holding. The cable to which it is attached runs through the pulley at the end of the crane’s arm. This building is nine stories high. The Jordans’ flat is on the seventh floor, you remember, so Janet’s window is the third one down.” He moved to the low parapet and leaned over. “The window is dark, so everything is O.K.,” he said, coming back to her. “Pull your seat in with you when you enter, Dorothy, and pull down the shade, of course, when the light is turned on. When Janet is ready, switch off the light again and have her give a couple of pulls on this guide rope.” He placed the rope in her hand. “Then we will hoist her up. Ready for your hop now?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Good luck, then. And remember that although you may not see us, I or some of my men will be near you all the time.”
Dorothy shook hands with her three friends and stepped into her swinging seat. She sat down, steadying herself with a grip on the cable.
“All serene?” asked Bill.
“Shove off!” said Dorothy.
Bill motioned to the stranger, there came the low whir of an electric motor. Her feet left the roof and she felt herself swung upward. Then the ascent stopped, the arm of the crane swung outward and with it her pendant seat. Her feet cleared the parapet and she was over the narrow airshaft.
Blurred lights from closed windows of the various apartments gave her a glimpse of many empty ashcans in the small courtyard far below. But the crane was lowering her now close to the wall of the building. She was facing the wall, and looking upward she made out four heads leaning over the parapet at the edge of the roof.
The descent was slow, but at last she passed two windows and came to rest beside the third, whose lower sash she saw was open. Then two arms caught her about the knees and she was pulled into the room.
“Dorothy—oh, Dorothy!” sobbed an excited voice so like her own that Dorothy gave a start.
“Well, here I am, Janet.” It was a prosaic reply, but her own heart was beating quickly, nevertheless. “Gee, it’s dark in here! Be a dear and shut down the window on this cable—and draw the shade, then turn on the light. I’m busy getting out of this thing.”
She heard the window and shade come down with a rush. As she stepped free of her conveyance, the lights flashed on, and the cousins flew into each other’s arms.
“Janet!”
“Dorothy!”
For a long moment the girls hugged each other and Janet, the more over-wrought, sobbed on her cousin’s shoulder.
Dorothy was herself deeply touched, but managed to control her feelings. “Come, dear,” she said at last. “We’ll just have to get going, I guess. They’re waiting for you on the roof—and somebody is likely to come to the door. We mustn’t be caught together, you know.”
“I know it.” Janet released her and again Dorothy gasped, for she heard her own voice speaking although the words came from Janet.
“Look, Dorothy!” Janet pointed to a long mirror in the corner of the room. “I knew that we were a lot alike, but I never could have believed—”
“Well, talk about two peas in a pod!” In the glass Dorothy saw herself standing beside her cousin; and had it not been that she wore a coat and hat, while Janet was dressed in a wine-colored silk frock, she would have had difficulty in knowing which was her own reflection. “Maybe I’m half an inch taller, or hardly that,” she said after a bit. “Lucky we both have had our hair shingled. You wear a bang, though—but that’s easily fixed.”
She whipped off her small hat and went over to the dressing table where she picked up a pair of nail scissors. Two minutes of snipping and Janet’s bang was duplicated on her own forehead. The hair she had cut off had been carefully placed on a magazine cover and opening the window a trifle she dropped the ends into the night.
“Now,” she said, closing the window. “You and I had better change clothes, Janet. And we’ll have to make it snappy.”
“Yes—and oh dear—” Janet was slipping off her dress—“I’ve got so much to talk about. You can’t realize what a horrible time I’ve had—and then to find you, only to lose you again!” Janet was very near to tears.
“But you won’t lose me long,” Dorothy flashed her a comforting smile as she got out of her own dress. “Meanwhile, you’ll have Howard. He’s waiting on the roof, now. And Ashton Sanborn says he can clear up this business in a few days.”
“You certainly are wonderfully brave to do this for me,” sighed her cousin. “If Mr. Sanborn hadn’t insisted that by changing places with you I’d be really helping the government, I couldn’t allow you to do it. As it is, I feel I’m cowardly to go through with it—”
“Why, you’re nothing of the sort,” Dorothy protested. While Janet talked and they both undressed, she watched her cousin’s mannerisms, storing away in her memory, for future use, every gesture, and inflection of the voice so like her own.
“Who’s who?” she giggled, and now her tone was softer, an exact duplication of Janet’s manner of speaking.
Her cousin smiled. “In our undies,” she admitted, “even I am beginning to wonder if I’m not seeing double and talking to myself. How about shoes and stockings, Dorothy?”
“Chuck ’em over, Janet, we’d better do it up right. I sp’ose most of your things are packed in that wardrobe trunk over there?”
“Yes. I packed it this afternoon. You’ll find some handkerchiefs and gloves in the top bureau drawer. I left the trunk open on purpose. When Mr. Lawson comes, you might be putting them in—it would help to make things natural.”
“Right you are—that’s a good idea.”
“My arctics and my hat and coat are in the closet. Your coat is much better looking than mine. It’s a shame to take it from you.”
“What’s a coat between cousins who love each other?” laughed Dorothy and put on Janet’s dress.
A few minutes later, the change of clothing had been made, and the girls regarded each other in awed wonder.
“I’ll bet,” Dorothy declared, “that when Howard sees you he’ll think I’ve come back again.”
Janet blushed. “Well, he’ll soon find out different. But it’s a shame to leave you here, darling. If there were only some other way!”
“But there isn’t. So cut along now, and just remember that this kind of thing is my stuff—I love it.”
“Some day I’ll make it up to you—if I ever can!”
Dorothy hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “You can do it tonight, if you want to.”
“Why—what do you mean?”
“Just follow any suggestions that Mr. Sanborn may make.”
“But, what does that—you’re hiding something from me!”
“Perhaps I am.”
“What is it?”
“Never mind, now.”
“But, Dorothy—”
“No time for that, Janet. Get into that swing arrangement with your back to the window.”
“All right, but kiss me goodbye, first.”
They held each other close for a second. Then as Janet took her place on the seat attached to the steel cable, Dorothy switched off the light.
“I’ll—I’ll do as you ask, I mean, about Mr. Sanborn,” whispered Janet.
“Thanks, darling, I—” began Dorothy, her hand on the window sash ready to raise it. Then suddenly she stopped.
Somebody was unlocking the door into the hall.
Chapter VII
PLAYING A PART
Dorothy ran to the door and caught hold of the knob. “Who’s there?” she cried.
“It’s I—Martin Lawson, Janet. May I come in?”
“Oh, please, Mr. Lawson, not right now.” There was a soft tone of pleading in her voice. “You see, I’ve been lying down and I’m not quite dressed.”
“But I thought I heard you speaking.”
“You did.” The real Janet, shivering by the window, caught her breath and heard Dorothy’s tone sharpen slightly. “To myself. Being cooped up like this for hours on end, I’m glad to hear the sound of my own voice. I often read aloud. But I’ll be ready shortly, if you want me.”
“All right, then. I’ll be back in five minutes. Your father is here and he wants to say goodbye.”
The key turned in the lock and with her ear close to the panel Dorothy was sure she could hear the faint tread of footsteps retreating down the hall. With her heart pumping sixty to the second, she dashed back to Janet and carefully raised the window.
“Heavens! that was a narrow squeak—” her cousin whispered shakily. “What nerve you’ve got! I nearly fainted—”
“Never mind,” Dorothy whispered back, “you’ve got to get out of here—and right now!”
“Oh, but I can’t, Dorothy. I’m afraid!”
Dorothy gave the signal rope two savage pulls. Almost immediately the cable began to tighten. “Close your eyes and hang on with both hands,” she ordered.
“But Dorothy—I’ll scream—I’m going to—I know it!”
“No, you won’t!” Quickly Dorothy clasped the frightened girl’s fingers around the taut cable. A dive into the pocket of Janet’s coat brought forth her own handkerchief which she hurriedly crumpled into a ball and thrust into her cousin’s mouth. The seat, with Janet in it, was rising slowly. She caught the paralyzed girl below the knees, steadied her as the crane drew its burden clear of the sill and pushed her carefully into the outer darkness. When Janet’s feet were on a level with the upper sash, she pulled down the window and shade and switched on the light again.
“Skies above!” Her breath came in short gasps and she leaned against the end of the bed to steady herself. “Talk about your thrills! That was worse than my first solo hop, by a long shot.” She ran her fingers through her short hair. “Let’s see—what next? Oh, yes—I was supposed to be lying down.”
She caught up a book from the table and tossed it open onto the bed. Then she lay down, rumpled the coverlet, made sure that the pillow showed the impression of her head, and sprang up again. An adventurous past had taught her the need of being thorough.
She went to the window and raising it, looked out and upward. Neither Janet nor the crane were in sight. Thankful that her cousin was safe at last, she pulled down the sash.
Two or three minutes later, when the door was unlocked, the two men who entered surprised her in the business of packing the contents of the top bureau drawer into Janet’s wardrobe trunk.
And now came as pretty a piece of acting as has ever been seen upon the stage; acting that Dorothy’s audience of two must not realize was acting, and furthermore, one of these men was the father of the girl she impersonated. Why hadn’t she remembered to ask Janet what she called that mysterious father of hers? Father, Papa, Dad, Daddy—which should she use? A mistake now would be fatal. Even her uncle must not become aware of her real identity. There was no time for hesitating. He was speaking now.
“Janet, my dear—” he began.
Dorothy ran to her uncle and throwing her arms about his neck, buried her head on his shoulder. “How could you leave me like this?” she wailed. “Why do you let these people keep me locked in my room? And now they are going to take me away!” Her voice grew louder, almost hysterical. She sobbed pathetically and clutched him a little tighter.
“My dear child—you mustn’t cry this way—you really mustn’t!” Mr. Jordan patted her back in the silly way men do when they want to be comforting. “Mr. Lawson and his wife will look after you in the country, while your Daddy is away.”
She released the embarrassed man, and pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbed her eyes with the cambric until she felt certain they looked bloodshot enough to pass inspection. “But I don’t want to go, Daddy. Please don’t let them take me,” she begged, her voice trembling as though she was using all her will power to gain self control. “If you can’t take me with you, why can’t I go back to school?”
“But that’s impossible, Janet. You are going to be Mrs. Lawson’s secretary. Don’t be foolish. All arrangements have been made.”
“Well, I’m eighteen,” said Dorothy with a show of temper. “My mother was a year younger than that when she ran away and married you. I am no longer a child. I don’t like being packed off like—like a bag of potatoes.”
“Are there any other reasons why you don’t want to come to Ridgefield with me?” Mr. Lawson spoke for the first time. His words fairly dripped with suspicion.
“Yes, there are.” Dorothy turned on him angrily. “Daddy goes off on a trip, and for reasons which appear to be a secret, you keep me locked in my room for more than a week, Mr. Lawson. And you seem to wonder why I resent it.”
“But you have been ill, my dear Janet.”
“If I’m so ill, why has no doctor been to see me?” Her voice was full of scorn.
“I have been keeping you under observation myself.”
“Quite possibly. I’ve been allowed to see nobody except that maid who acts as if she were deaf and dumb. If you are trying to tell me that I’m mentally deranged, I won’t stand for it! The mere fact that you now propose that I act as your wife’s secretary proves that you consider me capable. What right have you to keep me a prisoner in my own home? Who are you, Mr. Martin Lawson, to take upon yourself the regulating of my life?” Dorothy burst into angry tears.
“But my dear child—” protested Mr. Jordan. “I’ve never seen you behave like this—”
“No! And up to now,” she stormed, her eyes flashing, “you’ve never given me cause. In the first place I’m no longer a child—you forget that—and then—what kind of a life did you give me as a child? You are my father and you say that you love me, but can you expect deep affection from a daughter whom you ship to boarding school at five? You wouldn’t even let me visit friends during the holidays. For years at a time you never took the trouble to come and see me. How can you expect love and obedience after years of neglect?” She drew a sobbing breath, then went on: “For a while we traveled—you were nice to me—I enjoyed it. We settled down here. I forgave what you’d done to my childhood. I tried to make this flat a home for you, even though I was kept like a cloistered nun and you allowed me no friends. But this is going too far.”
“And what, may I ask, are you going to do about it?” inquired Lawson with a disagreeable smile.
“What can a defenseless girl without friends do to stop two big bullies? I shall go with you, Mr. Lawson, because I can’t help myself. But don’t expect me to like being used as a slave, even though I may be of some comfort to that long-suffering wife of yours. Oh, that makes you angry, does it? Well, let me tell you, that you are not half as angry as I am. You can practice your strong-arm methods on defenseless women and get away with it—some day you’ll try it on a man—and by the time he gets through thrashing you there won’t be enough left for the boneyard.” She flashed a smile of contempt on the furious man, and turned to Mr. Jordan who was speaking again.
“What has come over you, Janet?” he was saying. “I’ve never heard you speak so rudely to anyone before. You’ve always been such a quiet little mouse—”
“And you’ve taken advantage of it,” she interrupted. “What you forget is that even a mouse will turn and fight when it’s cornered. If you really loved me—if you had a spark of manhood in your selfish body, you’d thrash this man to within an inch of his life and throw him into the street. Get out of here—both of you!” she cried hysterically. “And please—no more silly arguments—I don’t want to be forced to say before outsiders what a contemptible person my father is proving himself to be.”
This last tirade seemed to stun Mr. Jordan. From the almost agonized expression on his face, she saw that at last conscience was at work. The man was utterly miserable. He could not hide it.
“Will you—will you be ready to leave in half an hour, Janet?” His voice was a mere whisper and shook with suppressed feeling.
“Yes, I’ll be ready. Go now, please—both of you!” She turned her back on them and walking over to the window, she threw up the shade and the sash. As she stood there staring into the night, she heard them leave the room.
This time the door shut without being locked. Dorothy streaked across the floor and pressed her ear to the keyhole. Just outside the men were talking.
“You’re a fool, Lawson, if you still think that Janet wasn’t asleep during the meeting,” she heard her uncle say. “Tonight proves it. And let me tell you this. From now on, my business and my home shall be kept separate and distinct. Never again will I allow myself to be placed in a position to be dressed down by my own daughter. There was no comeback either. Every word she said was gospel truth. It’s a terrible thing when a daughter makes her father realize what a low, cowardly creature he is at heart. Well, how about it? Aren’t you now convinced of her innocence?”
“I am.” Lawson clipped off the words, and as he went on speaking, there was insolence as well as a hint of nervousness in his tone. “But when it comes to giving me a thrashing, Number 5—well, I shouldn’t try it if I were you—not if you value your—er—health!”
“Stop talking like a fool!” retorted Janet’s father. “Is the girl to be sent to Ridgefield or not?”
“Now you’re talking rot, yourself,” snapped Lawson. “You know quite as well as I do that Laura won’t take our word for it. She told me this morning that any clever woman or girl for that matter, could twist a man around her finger without half trying. Laura wants to study your daughter herself—and that’s all there is to it.”
“I hope Mrs. Lawson has a pleasant time of it.” Mr. Jordan said sarcastically. “But I’m afraid my hope will not be granted.”
“Laura,” answered that lady’s husband, “can be rather disagreeable herself when she’s roused. Let us hope for Janet’s sake, that she doesn’t try her tantrums on my wife. By the way, what are you doing now?”
“Getting away just as fast as I can, thank you. No more scenes for me, tonight. I wouldn’t meet Janet on her way out of here for a million dollars!”
They moved further along the hall and Dorothy went slowly back to the window. Across the narrow court, two flights up, the shaded windows of Howard Bright’s flat shone a dull golden yellow in the black wall. For several minutes she stood watching the windows, her thoughts upon what she had done and what she had just heard.
Suddenly, shadows appeared on one of the yellow rectangles. The shade was raised and framed in the window were Janet and Howard. Just behind them stood a stranger who wore the round, conventional collar of a clergyman. The young couple were smiling happily. Both waved, and Janet held up her left hand.
Dorothy knew the significance of that gesture, and threw them a kiss. Then she saw the shade roll down, and she turned away.
“And so they were married and lived happily ever after.” She sighed. “Uncle Sanborn kept his promise, like the fine old sport he is.”
She stuffed the last of Janet’s belongings into the trunk, slammed it shut and locked it.
“Now for the dirty work—and Laura Lawson.” She smiled grimly and went to the closet for Janet’s hat and coat.
Chapter VIII
“WALK INTO MY PARLOR”
The sedan, with Martin Lawson driving and Dorothy beside him, purred smoothly through the dank, cold night. Now that they were past the realm of traffic lights, it lopped off the miles between them and Ridgefield with the regularity of an electric saw cutting planks from a log.
During the entire journey, now nearly over, Dorothy had spoken no word to the man beside her. She wanted him to believe that she was still furiously angry. As a matter of fact, she had felt antagonistic toward him from the first moment she laid eyes upon him; his smug overgrooming, the highly polished fingernails, the small waxed moustache and too immaculate clothing, all repelled her. She knew at once what it had taken Janet some time to realize: Martin Lawson might be and probably was a very clever man; he was, on the other hand, a man to be wary of. His manner was just a little too complacent, too smooth. Notwithstanding the forewarning she had received regarding his character, Dorothy knew instinctively that he was not genuine and not a trustworthy person in any respect. She detested him thoroughly.
He was a careful driver, she gave him credit for that. They found little traffic to impede their progress along the Boston Post Road, once the long tentacles of the great city were left behind. But the black swath of highway leading out and on from their moisture-coated headlights glistened wetly in their reflection. After they turned into the hills behind Stamford, heading for the Connecticut Ridge Country, the road for a mile or more at a stretch was covered with wet leaves. They crawled along at a snail’s pace to prevent skidding and a crash into the New England stone fences that rambled along the roadside dividing woodland from the rolling meadows.
Just beyond New Canaan, they drove past Dorothy’s home and Bill Bolton’s, for the properties faced each other across the ridge road. Before they reached Vista it was raining dismally, and Lawson had the windshield wiper going. Dorothy was thankful that the sixty-mile journey from New York was nearly over. At last they reached the outskirts of Ridgefield, and the car swung into a driveway between high pillars of native stonework. In the glow from the electric globes on the gate posts, the blue stone driveway curved and twisted like a huge snake, winding through landscaped lawns and gardens as formal and precise as a public park.
It was raining harder now, and Dorothy could see nothing beyond the path of their headlights. Although she had never been in the grounds before, she had driven past the Winn place numbers of times. Finally, she made out the bulk of a great stone house. Martin Lawson stopped the car beneath a porte-cochere. They had arrived.
Massive doors of wrought iron and glass swung open. A butler and two footmen in livery ran down the steps. The butler, a tall, important-looking individual, snapped open the car door.
“Good evening, Mr. Lawson,” he said. “Good evening, Miss.”
The voice with its high-pitched Oxford drawl still smacked of Whitechapel. Dorothy, who had travelled in England, was sure that under stress, the cockney in this personage would come out. She knew he was careful of his aitches.
“Good evening, Tunbridge,” Lawson returned briskly, and Dorothy smiled pleasantly. “Is Mrs. Lawson still up?”
“Madam is awaiting you in the library, sir.” Tunbridge helped Dorothy to alight and handed Janet’s overnight bag to a footman. “Jones,” he said to the other flunky, as Lawson stepped out of the car, “drive round to the service entrance. Miss Jordan’s box is in the back of the car. See that it is taken up to the Pink Bedroom and have Hanley garage the motor-car.”
“Very good, sir,” returned the man, and he got into the automobile.
Tunbridge ushered them up the broad stone steps. Dorothy caught a last glimpse of a leafless, dripping hedge across the drive, and the giant skeleton arms of a tree that seemed to menace earth and sky; then she entered the house, wondering what the next act of this strange drama would bring forth.
She found herself in an enormous hall, furnished with objects such as she had never seen outside a museum. Elaborately carved oak, suits of armor, stone urns, portraits, a wide stone staircase mounting upward to surrounding galleries, stained glass windows, tigers’ and lions’ heads, antlers of tremendous size, strange and beautiful weapons, all ranged in confusion before her eyes and suggested a baronial castle rather than the home of an American scientist, in the Connecticut hills.
Tunbridge led to a door on the right, where he knocked, then opened, as a muffled “Come in” was heard.
“Miss Jordan and Mr. Lawson, Madam,” announced the butler, and he stood aside to let them pass.
Dorothy walked into a room whose walls seemed built of books. The furniture was richly attractive and looked luxuriously comfortable. A fire blazed in a fine chimney and a table near it was set with a glitter of splendid silver and hot water plates below shining metal covers.
A tall, superbly beautiful woman, with dark eyes and coal-black hair that grew in a widow’s peak on her brow, rose from a chair on the wide hearth and came toward them. Her clear, white skin, and a broad streak of silver across the black hair gave her a strangely ethereal appearance, as though she might have been a being from another planet. The hand she held out to Dorothy was exquisitely formed, the fingers long and tapering.
“How do you do, Janet,” she said pleasantly. “Welcome to Winncote. You are later than we expected. The Doctor has gone to bed, but he left his greetings.”
“Thank you,” Dorothy returned formally and shook hands. “You are very kind, Mrs. Lawson.”
Laura Lawson gave her a smile, but the girl saw that it was a smile of the lips alone, her dark eyes remained somber. “Did you have a breakdown?” she asked her husband, taking notice of him for the first time.
“Slippery roads—it was impossible to do much more than crawl, Laura.” He lifted a dish cover on the table and inspected its contents. “Glad you thought to order supper—I’m famished.”
“So am I,” admitted his wife and her words seemed to carry a double meaning. “It’s long after three. Come over here by the fire and get warm, Janet. Now Tunbridge—if you’ll please serve us?”
Tunbridge seated them at the supper table and uncovered the dishes.
“Just a light meal,” announced the hostess, “scrambled eggs, toast and cocoa, but it will warm you up and help you last until breakfast.”
“It looks delicious!” said Dorothy, who discovered at the sight of food that she was starving. In fact all three were hungry, and for some little time conversation was dropped while the soft-footed Tunbridge waited upon them.
“We will have a chat tomorrow, Janet,” Mrs. Lawson said presently. “Tonight you are tired and so am I. We take breakfast in our rooms. Ring for it when you’re ready, but don’t hurry about getting up, I’ll see you down here about eleven-thirty. Have you had enough to eat and drink, my dear?”
“Plenty, thank you, Mrs. Lawson.” Dorothy thought it would be just as well if she played the demure mouse until she had a chance to size up her employer.
“Then I think we’ll go upstairs, Janet, and I’ll show you your room.” She looked at her husband. “You’ll be coming up soon, Martin?”
“Just as soon as I finish this pipe, and get a bit warmer.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Lawson, “that both you and Janet had better take a hot lemonade before you go to bed. I don’t want to have you both laid up with colds tomorrow.” She smiled solicitously at the girl.
“I hate the filthy stuff,” protested her husband.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered coldly and turned to the butler. “Tunbridge, have hot lemonades sent to Miss Jordan and Mr. Lawson in about twenty minutes, if you please.”
“Very good, madam.”
Laura Lawson slipped her arm through Dorothy’s. “Don’t be long, Martin.”
“I won’t. Good night, Janet.”
“Good night, Mr. Lawson.”
Mrs. Lawson seemed lost in thought as they slowly mounted the stone stairs. Suddenly she began chattily: “Men are such stupid creatures, Janet. So stupid about taking medicine or anything else that may be good for them. Martin and that hot lemonade is a case in point. I hope that you haven’t any foolish ideas like that?”
“Oh, no, indeed. I’m rather fond of it.”
“That’s fine. Now promise me you’ll get into bed and drink it just as hot as possible. There’s nothing better to ward off a cold, and you’ll sleep like a top into the bargain. Well, here’s your room, my dear. It’s late, so I won’t come in, but I think you’ll find all you need to make you comfortable. If you want anything, ring. Good night, Janet. Sleep well.”
“I’m sure I will, Mrs. Lawson. Good night.”
The older woman passed along the gallery and Dorothy entered her bedroom. It was a good-sized room, attractively furnished with everywhere evidence of a woman’s taste. Pink-shaded electric candles gleamed from the walls papered in cream and scattered with tiny pink rosebuds. The small grey-painted bed displayed pink pillow cases, sheets and blankets. A dainty writing desk in one corner of the room was also painted grey as was the chaise longue and the chairs, where the upholstery carried out the note of pink. A soft grey rug, pink-bordered, covered the floor, and Dorothy’s feet sank into its thick, warm pile as she investigated her new quarters. She saw that the room was nearly square, and opposite the door a rounded alcove sheltered a bow window, hung with pink taffeta, and the window seat below it was cushioned in pink.
In a corner against the wall stood Janet’s wardrobe trunk, and near it was a door that led into a spacious closet. Dorothy hung her coat on a padded hanger, and then looked into the rose and onyx tiled bath.
As she re-entered the bedroom she stopped short in surprise. A small piece of white paper protruded from beneath the door to the gallery. Quickly she stooped, snatched the paper and opened the door. The gallery was empty. Crossing to the balustrade she looked down upon the great entrance hall. That also was deserted and nobody was to be seen on the staircase.
She turned back, closed and locked her door. Then she spread out the paper she had crumpled in her hand. Printed on one side in pencil she read the words:
“BE ON YOUR GUARD. DO NOT DRINK THE LEMONADE. DESTROY THIS AT ONCE.”
“Now I wonder...” Dorothy muttered softly, “who sent me this note?”
Chapter IX
IN THE NIGHT
Dorothy turned over the piece of paper to find as she expected that the other side was blank. No signature. Nothing but the double warning, and the admonition to destroy the missive and to do so at once. Evidently the writer either believed or knew for certain that she would shortly be disturbed. There was no fireplace in the bedroom. Even though she tore the note into bits, some of the scraps might be found and pieced together should she throw them out the window; and her room might be searched at any time. How could she make way with it? For a moment or two Dorothy was at a loss. Mechanically her fingers tore the paper into fine shreds.
Then she smiled. “I guess we’ll let the plumbing take care of you,” she said, gazing down on the little pile of paper on her palm, and she disappeared into the bathroom.
When she returned, Dorothy opened Janet’s over-night bag, took out a pair of green silk pajamas, bedroom slippers and toilet accessories, among which was a new toothbrush in a case. This, and the underwear she had on were the only belongings of her own that she had retained.
From Janet’s purse, she extracted the trunk key. After some rummaging in that large travelling wardrobe, she found a quilted bathrobe of pale pink satin on a hanger toward the back. It was too late to unpack entirely, and she was about to close and relock the trunk, when she decided to leave it open. The Janet Jordan she was portraying had never waked up at the famous meeting of last week. That Janet would feel outraged at her imprisonment, her father’s seeming callousness and would naturally be furious at being packed up here willy-nilly: but she would have no cause to be suspicious of these people in this big stone house. If she had locked the trunk—Dorothy realized she had almost made a mistake, although a minor one—and in her present position mistakes were dangerous affairs.
Although it was very late and the day had been a strenuous one Dorothy did not feel tired. While she undressed, she went over in her mind the new vistas opened up by this mysterious note she had just destroyed. As she dissected it word by word from memory, she was astonished to find that the scrap of paper carried much interesting information between the lines.
Undoubtedly, Ashton Sanborn had planted a member of his organization in the house, but how that had been possible, she could not imagine. First of all, there was the warning to be on her guard. That Mrs. Lawson was indicated she had no doubt. Her hostess, while seeming most charming and courteous, had nevertheless suggested the hot lemonade which the note told her not to drink. It was quite likely that her unknown adviser had reason to think that the lemonade would be drugged. And then these people could hardly mean to poison her so soon after her arrival. For their whole idea in bringing her to Winncote, as she understood it, was to make sure whether the real Janet had heard their secrets or not. No—they merely wanted her to sleep soundly. But why?
Dorothy pondered on this for several minutes. There could be only one reason, she decided. Somebody was planning to enter her bedroom tonight, and wished to do so without her knowledge. What their purpose might be she could not guess and she did not bother about it. To a girl of a nervous temperament, such as Janet Jordan, the knowledge that such a visit was planned and success arranged for by means of a drug, would have been torture. But Dorothy, who could feel “Flash” in his holster just above her knee was merely worried for fear that lemonade or no lemonade she would fall asleep. The arrival here had been uneventful enough after what had happened at the Jordans’ apartment. At least, to all outward appearances it had been smooth sailing. She was beginning to realize that nothing with these people was what it seemed to be. She had climbed her Vesuvius and was standing at the crater’s edge. Already the first rumblings of the eruption had been heard.
Her position, though seemingly secure, was nothing of the kind. The sooner Ashton Sanborn gave her the orders he had promised, and she could carry them out and get away from this place, the better for Dorothy Dixon. And yet she could not help a feeling of exhilaration.
There came a gentle knock on her door. Wearing her quilted wrapper and slippers she turned the key and opened to—the imposing Tunbridge. He bore a small tray on which stood a steaming tumbler, a bowl of sugar, two spoons and a napkin. “Your hot lemonade, Miss Jordan,” he announced in his pompous voice and rather as though he were offering her a priceless gift. “Mrs. Lawson’s instructions are to drink it after you get in bed, Miss. May I mention also that it is very hot?”
Dorothy took the tray. “Thank you, Tunbridge, I’ll be careful. Good night!”
“Good night, Miss.”
The butler departed in the direction of the stairway, and Dorothy closed the door and locked it again.
She set the tray on a chair beside her bed and put two spoonfuls of sugar into the tall glass. It was too hot for anyone to drink yet, so she went into the bathroom to get ready for bed.
Five minutes later she switched off all the lights except the one on the head board. Then she got into bed, picked up the glass and stirred her lemonade, making sure that the spoon tinkled against the glass. If anyone was listening outside her door they would naturally think she was drinking the stuff.
After waiting a moment or two longer, she set the glass down on the tray with a thump that might have been heard on the gallery. But the glass remained in her hand. Off went her light now, and still holding the lemonade she got quickly and quietly out of bed. A silent trip to the bathroom in the dark and she emptied the lemonade into her washbowl. Then she came back and placed the empty glass on the tray. She hurried over to the bow window, opened a sash, turned off the heat in the radiator and crawled into bed again.
The bed was to the left of the door as one entered the room. By lying on her right side Dorothy held the entire room within her view. After the soft glare from the shaded electric lights, it seemed inky black, but soon her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. In the wall just beyond the foot of the bed was the closed door of her closet. The trunk stood beyond that in the corner. The alcove and window seat took up a large section of the farther wall and in the corner, diagonally across from where she lay was a dark spot—the writing desk. Opposite her bed was the half open door to the bathroom. The dressing table, the door to the hall but a few feet from her head—mentally she had completed her tour of the room.
Then for a long while, or so it seemed to the excited girl, she lay there waiting. Of course her door was locked, but the affair of the Winged Cartwheels a few months before had taught Dorothy that keys may be turned from the outside with a pair of small pincers. Her mind now set itself on the key in the door. In vain she listened for the warning click that would come when it turned in the lock. Now that she was lying in bed she began to discover how tired she was. It became harder and harder to stay awake.
She knew that she must have dozed, for without warning a light appeared, a golden circle on the center of the rug. Instantly she was wide awake and her hand beneath the blankets drew her throwing knife from its sheath. Through half-closed eyelids she made out a dark figure holding a flash light pointed toward the floor.
Then the glowing circle moved to the empty glass beside her bed, and Dorothy closed her eyes. For a moment it rested upon her face and she heard a low chuckle. Dorothy knew that voice. Her visitor was Laura Lawson.
The light swept away from her face. Mrs. Lawson touched the wall switch by the door and the bedroom sprang into light. The drug in the lemonade must have been a strong one, for it was evident that the intruder had no fear of her awakening. Without wasting another glance on Dorothy, Laura Lawson went to the wardrobe trunk and commenced a detailed inspection of its contents.
The woman’s back was turned, so Dorothy had no difficulty in watching her movements. Everything in the trunk was taken out, glanced at and put back exactly as it had been. This took some time, and it was fully half an hour before her hostess finished with the trunk. Next she overhauled the small travelling bag and the purse. Then the empty drawers of the dressing table and desk came under the woman’s eye. The pillows and cushions of the window seat were lifted. The rug was turned back. Every nook and cranny of the room and closet came under observation. Then she went into the bathroom.
“What under the shining canopy can she be looking for?” Dorothy marveled. “It can’t be the note I got tonight. She proposed the lemonade before that could have been written. I wonder if she’ll search the bed? She mustn’t find Flash—”
When Laura Lawson returned to the bedroom, she saw that the sleeper had turned over and was now facing the wall. For a moment she gazed down on the girl, then her hand crept under the pillow. Finding nothing there, the covers were pulled back to the foot of the bed.
Dorothy felt the cold breeze from the open window blowing on her pajamaed body, but she did not move. Presently sheet, blankets and silk comfort were replaced and the woman left the bedside. Dorothy chuckled inwardly. Flash was still safe. She was lying on him.
Off went the light. Dorothy knew that Mrs. Lawson’s slippered feet would make no sound on the thick pile of the rug. She waited to hear the door open and close, but heard nothing. With her face to the wall, she could see nothing. The strain of lying motionless became nerve wracking. What was the woman doing anyhow? Slowly she rolled over again. So far as she could tell, the room was empty.
For what seemed an age Dorothy lay, listening. Except for the wind sighing through the bare trees outside her window, there was no other sound. She felt nervous and unpleasantly excited. She must know if the door had been left unlocked. Slipping out of bed she tiptoed across to it and tried the handle. The door did not give.
Suddenly she froze against the panels. A dim glow appeared on the opposite wall as the closet door swung slowly back, and outlined in the opening was the tall figure of Tunbridge.
Chapter X
SURPRISES
Dorothy’s experiences, since she had shopped for neckties for her father that morning had been quite enough to lay up the average girl for a week, and to wreck her nerves into the bargain. Laura Lawson’s appearance in her bedroom had strained tightened nerves to the breaking point.
The arrival of this second intruder was just too much. As the butler stepped out of the closet and started to close the door, Dorothy’s self-control snapped like a rubber band. She forgot that she was playing a part; that it might be suicidal to show her hand so early in the game. Fear gripped her throat. Had this man been sent to kill her? If not, then what was he doing, stealing into her room through a secret entrance like an assassin of the middle ages? Self-preservation bade her act. The consequences could take care of themselves.
“Stop!” The harsh whisper, as her hand dove for Flash, sounded like the voice of a stranger. “Move another step, and I’ll pin you to that door!” Flash was in her raised hand now, the extended blade reflecting the light in the closet as though the polished steel were glass.
She saw the man start in surprise and turn his head in her direction. As she was about to hurl the knife, Tunbridge found his voice.
“Ashton Sanborn sent me, Miss Dixon. Please don’t throw that knife.”
Gone was the English accent, and the pompous intonation of the British man servant. Tunbridge, if that were really his name, spoke the American Dorothy was accustomed to hear, the accents of the cultured New Englander. For the second time in her life, Dorothy fainted.
She awoke to find herself in bed. Tunbridge was beside it. She could just make out his tall, powerful figure in the darkness.
“Goodness—did I faint?” she said weakly.
“You certainly did, Miss Dixon.” His tone was little above a whisper. “Please don’t raise your voice—and drink this. I found the aromatic spirits of ammonia in the bathroom. You need something to steady you. No one is cast iron—you’ve been through a frightful lot today.”
Dorothy took the glass and drained it. Then she lay back on her pillow. “I got the scare of my life just now. Why didn’t Ashton Sanborn tell me about you, Mr.—”
“Tunbridge is really my name, Miss Dixon. John Tunbridge, and very much at your service. I was afraid my rather abrupt appearance would startle you, and especially coming so soon after Mrs. Lawson’s—er—visit. I got a shock myself when I saw your white figure by the door just now, and all ready to split me with that knife, like—like a macaroon.” He chuckled, and removing the tray, sat down on the chair beside her bed.
“Oh, then you’ve seen Ashton Sanborn this evening, Mr. Tunbridge?”
“Heard from him, Miss Dixon. As you must know by now, I am a secret service operative and I am working under Mr. Sanborn. There isn’t time to go into detail now, but a couple of months ago, our department received an anonymous letter saying that Doctor Winn would bear watching. Shortly before that the Doctor had engaged Mrs. Lawson, who is an expert chemist by the way, to take charge of his laboratory. Her husband has been Doctor Winn’s secretary since last spring. We thought at that time that Mrs. Lawson might be the mysterious letter writer. Since then we’ve altered our opinion. Mr. Sanborn decided that inasmuch as Doctor Winn was working for the government it would be well to have a secret service man in the house. We prevailed upon the butler here to resign and I took his place.”
“Then Doctor Winn knows you’re a government detective?”
“No one in this house knows that, except you, Miss Dixon. The whole matter was arranged through an employment agency. Doctor Winn and the others here have no idea that I, like you, am simply playing a part.”
“Well, you’re certainly a splendid actor, Mr. Tunbridge.”
“Thank you, Miss Dixon. As you’ve no doubt discovered, acting, convincing acting, often plays a large part in our profession. You are doing brilliantly in that respect yourself. Mr. Sanborn thought, however, that it would be better if you did not know about me until the necessity arose. Mrs. Lawson, he knew would be watching you like a hawk when you arrived. If you had been aware of my identity, your position would only have been more difficult. She might have had her suspicions aroused in some way, which would have given you a wrong start from the beginning. I think you will realize tomorrow how hard it will be to treat me as though I were merely Tunbridge the butler.”
“Oh, I think you’re right. Tell me, how did you find out about the lemonade?”
“I overheard the Lawsons talking, yesterday. Made it my business in fact. It seems that Mrs. Lawson has had the idea that if Janet Jordan was only shamming sleep at that meeting, she would do her best to communicate with her father in some way. The natural thing to do would be to write a note and slip it in his hand or his pocket, when he came to see her. Martin Lawson was sure he would detect anything of the kind when he brought Jordan to say goodbye to Janet tonight at the flat. If not, the plan was to drug the girl with hot lemonade so that Mrs. Lawson could search her belongings for the note tonight.”
Dorothy nodded. “I watched her closely while she was in here, and so far as I could make out she didn’t find anything that interested her particularly. The Lawsons must have guessed wrong about Janet writing her father.”
“Well, no, they didn’t,” declared her new ally. “Janet wrote a letter, just as they surmised.”
“But where could it be?” asked Dorothy in a startled whisper, and sat bold upright in bed.
“Probably destroyed by this time,” Mr. Tunbridge chuckled. “There’s no need to worry on that score, Miss Dixon. When Ashton Sanborn spoke to your cousin this afternoon by means of Howard Bright’s headphone set, he learned that Janet proposed doing just what this clever pair here figured upon. Of course she had already written the note, and as there was no safe way to get rid of it in her room, he told her to take it with her when she left. And now if you’ll be good enough, I wish you’d tell me what happened after you took her place in the flat.”
Dorothy gave him a short sketch of her encounter with her uncle and Martin Lawson in Janet’s room, and of the conversation between the two men in the corridor afterward. “All the way up here,” she ended, “I pretended I had a grouch. Mr. Lawson tried to start a conversation several times, but he soon found it wasn’t much fun talking to himself and he gave it up as a bad job.”
“Excellent,” applauded the secret service man, “and quite in keeping with your behavior in the flat. You have done most remarkably well, Miss Dixon. Only—you won’t mind if I warn you not to let first success make you careless.”
“Do you really believe that these people mean to do away with me if they discover I am not what I appear to be, Mr. Tunbridge? It sounds a bit too melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“These Lawsons, husband and wife, are playing for gigantic stakes.” The detective’s voice, though barely audible was extremely grave. “They will stop at nothing. When crooks have at least two murders behind them, they’re not likely to stop at a third.”
“Then—then they are not what they pretend?”
“Certainly not. They’re a pair of high class European crooks named du Val.”
Dorothy shuddered. “And murderers!”
“Undoubtedly. They’re wanted both in England and in Austria for their crimes.”
“How did you find that out?”
“Oh, you see I recognized them when I arrived here, Miss Dixon.”
“But—but I can’t see why—why you didn’t arrest them then and there! You knew that they were after the secret of Doctor Winn’s new explosive, or whatever it is he has invented.”
“Yes, we realized that the formula for Doctor Winn’s explosive gas was the magnet that drew the du Vals to this house; but until today we had no idea how they proposed to dispose of the formula after stealing it.”
“I see. And now you realize that they probably intend to sell it to the organization of which my uncle is a member?”
“You are right, Miss Dixon.”
“Then why can’t you arrest the Lawsons now?”
“We can take the Lawsons at any time,” Tunbridge explained. “But we want to catch the ringleader of this organization. We know the group exists and for no good purpose, but what their definite object may be we still have no means of telling. We can’t arrest them on suspicion alone. Once they actually buy the formula from the Lawsons, it will be quite a different matter.”
She shook her head slowly. “But why hasn’t the formula been stolen before this? They’ve had plenty of opportunity, surely—”
“Because it is not completed. At dinner tonight I heard the Doctor say that by tomorrow afternoon the work would be finished, and that he expected to take the formula to Washington the day after tomorrow.”
“Then you expect?—”
“I expect that the Lawsons will make their attempt tomorrow night.”
“And where do I come in on this business, Mr. Tunbridge?”
“You are going to take the plans from Doctor Winn’s safe before the Lawsons get to it.”
She drew her breath sharply. “That’s a pretty large order—”
“I know it, but—of course you’ll have the combination of the safe—”
“Are you going to give it to me now?”
“Too dangerous. They are quite capable of searching your belongings again—or your person, for that matter—at any time. I’ll get it to you with exact instructions just as soon as the Doctor completes that blooming formula and locks it in the safe.”
“That’s all very well, Mr. Tunbridge. But has it occurred to you that if I steal this paper—I suppose it will be a paper?—”
“Probably several of them—”
“Well, if I take these papers before the Lawsons can get them, how are you going to arrest my uncle and the other men?”
“You,” directed Tunbridge, “will simply make a copy and replace the original documents where you found them. This is a safety-first move. We must have a copy in case the originals are destroyed.”
“It looks like a very complicated matter to me,” Dorothy admitted candidly. “Why not put the old gentleman wise? After all, it’s his formula, and if he made his own copy it would save us a possible run-in with the Lawsons, and—”
Mr. Tunbridge stood up. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, making a brave attempt to stifle a yawn, “but Doctor Winn would never agree to it. For a scientist who dabbles in high explosives, he’s the most nervous man I’ve ever met. He’d give the whole show away. No, that’s out of the question. Doctor Winn must be kept in ignorance of the whole proceeding. And now—” a yawn got the better of him this time— “and now to bed. You need sleep even more than advice just now. Good night, or rather, good morning, Miss Dixon. Pleasant dreams, I hope.”
He started toward the door and Dorothy sprang out of bed and reached for her dressing gown.
“I want to see that secret passage, Mr. Tunbridge,” she said in a low tone.
“Oh, yes, come along.” He opened the door and stepped inside the closet. “It works this way. Press your foot on the board in the farthest right hand corner, like this, and a panel in the back wall slides up—like that—”
Dorothy stared at the gaping black hole, then as the detective-butler snapped on his flashlight she saw that a narrow circular staircase led downward in the wall.
“That stair curves down to the ground floor,” he explained. “It comes out through the side wall inside the big fireplace in the hall. To open the panel down there you press a button under the left-hand corner of the mantel. To close either panel you simply put it down, once you’re inside.”
“Are there any more of these passages in the walls?”
“Very likely, but I haven’t found them yet. Winncote is an exact copy of the Doctor’s ancestral home in Wales. Those old houses were honeycombed with priest holes, secret passages and whatnot. And Doctor Winn had his architect copy the original Winncote across the water down to the last stone, with modern improvements such as bathrooms and steam heat, added.”
“Funny old fellow, isn’t he?” commented Dorothy sleepily. “Then I’m simply to carry on until I hear from you again?”
“That’s right. But whatever you do, watch your step with the Lawson woman. She is fully as heartless as she is beautiful. If you had never heard of that meeting in the Jordans’ flat, it would be much better for you. She will try to trap you, so please be on your guard continually. Well, good night, again.”
“Good night, Mr. Tunbridge.”
The panel in the back wall of the closet slid into place, and Dorothy went back to bed. She realized now that this matter of impersonating her cousin was not going to prove to be the easy job she had fancied. A slip on her part now would not only put her own life in danger, it would probably ruin all government plans to apprehend these desperate criminals.
At last she fell into a troubled sleep wherein she dreamed that a long circular staircase curved round and round her bedroom, and that Mrs. Lawson, dressed as a butler, had set her to watch every step of it.
Chapter XI
GRETCHEN
Dorothy awoke from troubled dreams to find that it was another day. Through the open window she saw the swirl of snowflakes driven in a high wind. The bedroom was cold and in the grey light of the winter morning it had lost its cheerful air.
She heard a knock on the door.
“Who’s there?” she called drowsily.
“It’s the maid, miss. Mrs. Lawson thought you might be wanting your breakfast now.”
Dorothy looked at her wrist watch. The hands marked ten-thirty. She jumped out on the rug, which felt cold and clammy under her bare feet, went to the door and unlocked it. Then she scampered back to bed and snuggled under the warm covers.
In walked a trim little figure wearing the small white apron and gray uniform of a chambermaid. Dorothy saw a round merry face, and a pair of big blue eyes beneath the white lawn cap, and thick flaxen braids were coiled round the neat head. She was surprised and somehow pleased to discover that this attractive member of the household staff could not be much more than sixteen, just her own age.
The little maid shut the door softly, crossed to the window and closed it, turned on the steam heat and came to the bedside. “Good morning, Miss Jordan.” She smiled engagingly. “I’m Gretchen, miss. Will you have your breakfast in bed?”
“Why, thank you, Gretchen—that will be cozy. But if it’s going to give you any trouble, don’t bother.” With the covers drawn up to her eyes, Dorothy smiled back at the girl.
“Oh, no, miss—it’s no trouble at all.” Gretchen was insistent. “It’s all ready now. I’ll run down and bring it up.”
She whisked out of the room and Dorothy rolled over for another cat-nap.
“If you’ll be good enough to sit up now, Miss Jordan—I have your breakfast here.”
Dorothy awoke again, yawned and stretched luxuriously. Gretchen stood beside her bed with the breakfast tray.
“If you’ll be good enough to sit up, miss?” she repeated.
Dorothy punched the pillows into position behind her, slipped the quilted gown about her shoulders and leaned back. Gretchen moved nearer—then almost dropped the tray.
“Why—why—miss—”
Dorothy leaned over and steadied the tray. “What’s the matter, Gretchen?” The little maid was staring at her open-mouthed, her big blue eyes as round as saucers.
“Oh, I—I beg your pardon, but it’s—it’s the resemblance, miss—Miss Jordan.” She set the tray over Dorothy’s knees and drew back still with that astonished look. “I couldn’t see you very well before, miss, with the covers up to your eyes. But when you sat up, it sure did give me a start.”
“What do you mean, Gretchen? The resemblance to whom?” Dorothy, outwardly calm, fingered her glass of orange juice, but her thoughts raced toward this new complication.
“Why, you look so much like Dorothy Dixon—the flyer, you know, miss. She’s my hero—I mean, heroine, Miss Jordan. I’ve read everything the newspapers printed about her and Bill Bolton. You must have read about them too, everybody has?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about them.” Dorothy hoped her tone sounded indifferent. “But you know, Gretchen, newspaper pictures are often very poor likenesses.”
The girl smiled and nodded. “I know that, Miss Jordan. I’ve got them all and there isn’t no two of the pictures that looks alike.”
“Then how—?”
“You see, it wasn’t the newspaper pictures I was thinking of, miss, but Dorothy Dixon herself. You see I know Miss Dixon,” she went on proudly, “and you two are certainly the spittin’ images of each other, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Dorothy minded very much, but it was not consistent with the part she was playing to admit it. Here was a contretemps not even Ashton Sanborn had foreseen. Yet, of course, New Canaan was only ten miles away. She had many friends in Ridgefield, and she’d been there hundreds of times. But she simply couldn’t remember having seen Gretchen in any of their homes. Her answer was but a feeble stall for time.
“So you know her then?” she said lamely.
“Oh, yes, miss. Not well, you understand. I saw her and Mr. Bill Bolton first when they finished the endurance test on the Conway motor this fall. Then a few days later, I drove over to her house in our flivver—over to New Canaan, you know, and I called on Miss Dixon. I wanted her to autograph a picture of herself I’d cut out of the Sunday paper.”
“And you met her?” Dorothy remembered the incident perfectly now. But the maid’s uniform—and her hair—when she had seen her, Gretchen had worn two braids over her shoulders, very much the schoolgirl. No wonder she hadn’t recognized her. But now what should she do? Would it be possible to keep up this camouflage with a girl whom she had met and with whom she would come in daily contact? Gretchen was talking again.
“Yes indeed, I met her. And she was just darling to me, Miss Jordan. She even gave me one of her own photographs and wrote on it, too. You see, us Schmidts came over from Germany about a hundred years ago, but we’re honest-to-goodness Americans just the same. Father was in the American army during the war. He was an aviation mechanic. He found one of them Iron Crosses of the Germans on some battlefield in France and kept it for a mascot. And would you believe it, miss, Father never even got wounded once, the whole time he was over there! Perhaps it was the little Iron Cross, and perhaps it wasn’t. Anyway, he thought a lot of his mascot. When I was ten years old, he had it fixed on a thin gold chain for me to wear around my neck, and gave it to me on my birthday. Well, when I went to see Miss Dixon this fall, I took it with me. She goes up in her airplane so much and does so many other exciting things, I wanted her to have it. She didn’t want to take the cross at first, but I persuaded her to, just the same. And you don’t know how nice she was to me, Miss! Took me out to see Will-o-the-Wisp—that’s her plane, you know—she calls it Wispy for short. And I had a perfectly grand time. She’s my heroine, all right. And you, miss—I hope you’ll excuse me for talking so much about it—but you look exactly like her, and your voices are just the same, too. It’s wonderful!”
“So you are Margaret Schmidt,” Dorothy said slowly.
“Yes, miss, that is so, though everybody calls me Gretchen. How did you know my given name, Miss Jordan? Is Miss Dixon a friend of yours? Did she tell you about me? But that’s silly—she wouldn’t remember me.”
Dorothy looked the little maid straight in the eyes. “She remembers you, Gretchen. Would you be willing to do something for her—to keep a secret, a very important and maybe a dangerous one? Do you think you could do it?”
Gretchen looked awestruck, then she smiled. “Mother says I’m the closest-mouthed girl she ever saw, miss. They could cut me in pieces before I ever let out any secret of Dorothy Dixon’s. I’d never tell—not me! You can trust me, Miss Jordan.”
“I’m sure I can, Gretchen. And I’m going to.” Dorothy slipped her hand into the V-neck of her pajamas. “Remember this?”
“Why—it’s—it’s my Iron Cross—that I gave Dorothy Dixon. How in the world—?”
“I am Dorothy Dixon.” Dorothy broke into laughter at the bewildered expression on the girl’s face.
“But—but I don’t understand!” Gretchen stammered as though her tongue was half-paralyzed. “I knew the resemblance was wonderful—but—they said you were Miss Janet Jordan—and—”
“You sit down on the end of the bed,” said Dorothy, “I’ll go on with my breakfast before it gets cold, and explain at the same time. We won’t be disturbed, will we?”
“Oh, no, miss.”
“How about your work, Gretchen? Will you be wanted downstairs?”
“Mr. Tunbridge told me to unpack your trunk, miss—Miss Dixon—and to make myself generally useful.”
“Fine,” smiled Dorothy, pouring out a cup of coffee. “But keep on calling me Miss Jordan—otherwise you’ll be making slips in the name in front of other people and that would be fatal.”
“Yes, Miss Jordan,” Gretchen grinned happily.
“After this beastly business is over,” Dorothy went on, “we’ll be Gretchen and Dorothy to each other.”
The other girl looked a trifle embarrassed. “But I’m only a chambermaid, Miss Jordan,” she said shyly.
“Don’t be silly!” Dorothy waved away the argument with a sweep of her spoon. “You’re proving yourself a real friend—and that’s that.”
“Very well, Miss Jordan.”
“Now pin back your ears, Gretchen.” Dorothy lifted the cover from her scrambled eggs. “I am taking my cousin, Janet Jordan’s place as Mrs. Lawson’s secretary. Nobody in this house knows who I am except Mr. Tunbridge, nor must they be given the slightest hint that I am anybody but Janet Jordan. As you’ve probably guessed, Janet and I look almost exactly alike. Our mothers were twins and that probably accounts for it.”
“Gee—” breathed Gretchen. “It’s just like a story in a book!”
Dorothy bit into a slice of buttered toast. “Maybe it is,” she admitted, speaking with her mouth full. “But the point is that you and I are living this story and it may come to a very abrupt and unpleasant ending unless we’re both terribly careful. Let’s see—where was I? Oh, yes. Mr. Tunbridge and I are working together on this case, working for the United States Government.”
“Secret Service?” asked Gretchen in an awed whisper.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll be working for the secret service too?” Dorothy could see that the girl was very much impressed with the idea.
“You will, Gretchen—that is, you are—under me. But don’t get too pepped up about it. The work we are on is serious and it is extremely dangerous into the bargain. I wouldn’t have brought you into it unless I had to. Right now I haven’t the slightest notion how you are going to be fitted into the picture. But I couldn’t have you going around, talking about how much Janet Jordan looks like Dorothy Dixon, could I? Doctor Winn and the Lawsons have no idea of either the resemblance or the relationship. If that came out and they got wind of it—well, there’s no telling what might happen.”