DOROTHY DIXON AND THE DOUBLE COUSIN

Chapter I

THE ENCOUNTER

“Why—good heavens, girl! How in the world did you escape?”

Dorothy Dixon heard the low, eager whisper at her elbow but disregarded it. She was intent on selecting a tie from the colorful rack on the counter before her. She spoke to the clerk:

“I’ll take this one, and that’ll make four. I hope Daddy will approve my taste in Christmas presents,” she smiled, and laid a bill on her purchases.

“But—please, dear, tell me! Don’t you know I’m worried crazy? Who let you out?”

This time Dorothy felt a touch on her arm. She wheeled quickly to face a tall, slender young fellow of twenty-two or three. As she stared at him, half indignant, half wondering, she saw sincere distress in his brown eyes, and in the lines of his pleasant face. Hat in hand, he waited anxiously for an answer to his question, while the crowd of holiday shoppers poured through the aisles about them.

Dorothy’s eyes softened, then danced. “It seems to me,” she said, “that you have the wires twisted—it’s not I who’ve escaped, but you! Run along now and find your keeper. You’re evidently in need of one!”

“Your change and package, miss,” the impersonal voice of the haberdashery clerk intervened and Dorothy turned back to the counter.

“But why on earth are you acting this way, Janet?” The strange young man was at her elbow again.

Once more Dorothy turned swiftly toward him but when she spoke her eyes and voice were serious. “Do you really mean to say you think you’re speaking to Janet Jordan? Because—”

“My dear—what are you trying to tell me?” He broke in impatiently. “I certainly ought to know the girl I’m going to marry!”

Dorothy nodded slowly. “I agree with you—you ought to—but then, you see, you don’t!”

The young man crushed his soft felt hat in his hands and took a step nearer to her. “Look here—what is the matter with you? I know you’ve been through a lot, but—” He broke off abruptly, a gleam of horror and suspicion in his honest eyes. “Janet! What have they done to you?”

Dorothy laid a firm hand on his arm. “Sh! Be quiet—listen to me.” Then she added gently—“I am not Janet Jordan, your fiancee.”

“You’re not—!”

“No. My name is Dorothy Dixon—and I’m Janet’s first cousin.”

The young man seemed flabbergasted for a moment. Then he stammered—“Wh-why, it’s astounding—the resemblance, I mean! You’re alike as—as two peas. If you were twins—”

“But you see,” she smiled, “our mothers, Janet’s and mine, were twins, and I guess that accounts for it. I’ve never seen Janet, but this is the third time, just recently, that I’ve been taken for her by her friends, Mr.—?”

“My name is Bright,” he supplied. “Howard Bright. Yes, now I can see a slight difference, Miss Dixon. You’re a bit taller and broader across the shoulders than she is. But it’s your personalities, more than anything else, that are altogether unlike. I hope you’ll forgive me, Miss Dixon, for making a nuisance of myself!”

“No indeed—that is, of course I will!” Dorothy laughed merrily. “You’re not a nuisance, you know, but,” and her tone became grave, “I can see that you’re in trouble. Is there—” she hesitated.

“Not I, Miss Dixon—that is, not directly. But,” he lowered his voice, “Janet is—is in very serious trouble. And for a moment, when I saw you, I thought that in some miraculous way she had escaped.”

Howard Bright’s face suddenly became almost haggard and Dorothy’s sympathy and concern for her cousin deepened into resolve.

“Look here, Mr. Bright,” she said abruptly, “we can’t talk here, in this shopping crowd, it’s a regular football scrimmage. Let’s go up to the mezzanine. A friend of mine is waiting there for me now, I’m a little late as it is, and—”

“But I can’t bother you with this,” he protested, “and especially—”

“Oh, come along,” she urged, “Bill is a grand guy when it comes to getting people out of messes. I insist you tell us all about it. After all, Janet’s my cousin, you know, and you’ll soon be a member of the family, won’t you?”

“There doesn’t seem much hope of that now.” Young Bright’s tone was despondent. “But Janet certainly does need help, and she needs it badly—so—”

Dorothy caught his arm. “I’m going to call you Howard,” she announced briskly. “So please drop the Miss Dixon. And come on—let’s push our way over to the elevators.”

The mezzanine floor of the department store was arranged as a lounge or waiting room for customers. Comfortable arm chairs and divans invited tired shoppers to rest. Writing desks and tables strewn with current magazines gave the place a club-like appearance.

Dorothy and her newly found acquaintance stepped out of the elevator and looked about. The place seemed especially quiet after the rush and bustle on other floors, and was almost deserted, save for two elderly ladies conversing in low tones near a window, and a young man, who rose at their approach.

As the good looking youth moved toward them with the lithe, easy grace of a trained athlete, Howard Bright saw that he had light brown hair, and blue eyes snapping with vitality and cheerfulness.

“Hello, Dorothy!” He greeted her smilingly, “better late than never, if you don’t mind my saying so. I’d just about figured you were going to pass up our date.”

“Sorry, Colonel,” she mocked. “Explanations are in order I guess, but they can wait. This is Howard Bright, Bill—Howard, Mr. Bolton!”

The two young men shook hands.

“Bolton—Dixon?” Howard’s tone was thoughtful. “Why!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You two are the flyers—the pair who won the endurance test with the Conway motor! I’m certainly glad to meet you both. The papers have been full of your doings. Well, this is a surprise! But you know, I’d got the impression that you were both older—”

“I’m sixteen,” smiled Dorothy. “Bill has me beat by a year.”

“How about lunch?” suggested Bill. He invariably changed the subject when his exploits were mentioned. People always enthused so, it embarrassed him. “You’ll join us, of course, Mr. Bright?”

“Thanks, Mr. Bolton. I really don’t think I can butt in this way—”

“There’s no butting in about it,” Dorothy interrupted. “Howard is engaged to my cousin, Janet Jordan, Bill. And Janet’s in a lot of trouble. I’ve promised we’d do everything we can to help.”

Bill, after one look at Howard’s worried face, sized up the situation instantly. “Why, of course,” he said. “And we can’t talk with any privacy in this place. I can see that whatever the trouble is, it’s serious.”

“Janet’s in desperate peril,” Howard said huskily.

“You said something about her escape when we met,” Dorothy reminded him. “Has somebody kidnapped her? Have you any idea where she is?”

“Yes, she’s a prisoner. A prisoner in the Jordans’ apartment on West 93rd Street.”

“Then her father is away?”

“No. He leaves tonight, I believe.”

“But, my goodness!—a girl can’t be kidnapped and made a prisoner in her own home. Especially if her father is there. It doesn’t sound possible.”

“I know it doesn’t,” admitted Howard desperately, “it sounds crazy. But it’s the truth, just the same. She’s in frightful danger.”

Dorothy looked horrified. “You mean that my uncle and Janet don’t get on together—that they’ve had a row and you’re afraid he will harm her?”

“Oh, no, they’re very fond of each other.”