The Mysterious Visitor

Maybe the prim butler was reporting to Mrs. Lynch right now that her houseguest, wearing nothing but flannel pajamas, had wandered into the garage a few minutes ago. "Don’t be silly," she said again, forcing herself to smile. "You’re much too smart to harm me in any way, Mr. Britten. You know those portraits don’t prove anything and neither did my trip to Hawthorne Street. So you needn’t worry. I still haven’t got any proof that you’re not Mr. Montague Wilson.
    Not unless you plan to let me depart with that pistol permit, Mr. Britten."
    "I’m not going to let you depart at all," he said. "Now that you know my real name, you wouldn’t waste any time having me arrested. You can’t get a pistol license without being thumbprinted. No matter what name I took after I let you go, the FBI would track me down in a matter of a few hours."
    "The FBI will get you, anyway," Trixie said, "for kidnapping, if you don’t let me go. When the Lynches discover I’m missing tomorrow morning, don’t you think they’re going to put two and two together to guess what happened to me?"
    "They can guess," he said, grabbing Trixie’s hands. "By that time I’ll be miles away. The Lynches don’t know my real name."
    Trixie stood passively while he tied her hands behind her back. There was no sense in struggling. "You’ll never get a chance to cash that check," she said, in order to hide the lump of fright that was rising in her throat. "Try it tomorrow morning and see what happens—see how fast the police nab you."
    "What check?" he demanded. "I got cash from Lynch today. After our little conversation on the terrace last night, I decided to take no chances." He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wound it, and tied it tightly across Trixie’s mouth.
    Trixie sank down on a bunk and blinked to keep from crying. He pulled the draperies, partly covering the side windows, and left the trailer, locking both doors from the outside. Now there was no hope, no chance of rescue. She would have given anything to see a familiar face—even Bobby’s—then.
    Bobby! Trixie let the tears come. Would she ever see him or her mother or father or any of her brothers again? Then the lights went out, and the darkness made the situation intolerable. The motor of the tow car started up, and in another minute the Robin was bumping out of the garage and into the light again. At the same moment Trixie saw out of the comer of one eye that the door to the shower compartment was slowly, slowly opening. If she could have screamed, she would have screamed at the top of her lungs. And then, to her amazement and joy, a familiar, freckled face appeared in the crack. The boy who came out of the shower compartment was Mart Belden!
    They were in darkness suddenly, for the trailer had left the pool of the floodlights. But, thank goodness, Mart had a flashlight. He clicked it on with one hand and yanked the handkerchief from her face with the other.
    "Oh, Mart!" was all Trixie could say.
    "Take it easy, kid," he said gently as he freed her hands. "Don’t worry; we’ll get out of this scrape. And when we do get out, I’m going to be sure to blacken both of that guy’s eyes." "B-But how did you get in the shower compartment?" Trixie asked weakly.
    "Never mind that now," Mart said. "I was about to appear on the scene earlier, but when I heard Monty say he had a gun, I realized I had better stay put. Otherwise, I’d be in the same fix you were, and we would both have been helpless." As he spoke he opened the windows on both sides of the trailer.
    They had left the Lynch estate and were traveling along the deserted river road. Trixie jumped up to peer out of the back window, hoping against hope that she might glimpse the headlights of an approaching car.
    "Oh, Mart," she cried. "Why didn’t you yell as we passed the Lynches’ house? Someone there might have heard you."
    He shook his head. "With the doors and windows closed, the only someone would have been Monty. And don’t forget he’s got a gun, Trixie. And he won’t hesitate to use it, either. This escape of Monty’s is the last step in his scheme to get money from the Lynches. He’s not going to let us stop him now. Remember that, Trix."
    Now that she was no longer alone and helpless, Trixie began to recover her spirits. "I’m not likely to forget it," she said tartly. "But, Mart, suppose he sticks to back roads. What are we going to do?" Mart pulled off his sweater and handed it to her. "You’re