"What do you want?" Penny gasped. She felt certain the man intended to arrest her for aiding Amy Coulter to escape.
The detective stared down at her face.
"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "When you came out of that rooming house I mistook you for another."
He released his grip on her arm and continued to offer excuses as Penny walked away. She chuckled to herself, realizing that the plainclothes man had taken her for Amy Coulter. But the smile quickly left her face, for she did not feel very proud of the trick she had played on the police. If it should turn out that the girl was guilty, then indeed she would be sorry.
Dinner was over when Penny reached home, and Mrs. Gallup reported that Mr. Nichols had returned to his office to work on a case.
"Your food is in the oven, Penny," she told the girl a trifle irritably. "I declare, I can't see why you had to run off just when I was setting things on the table. Your father is the same way!"
"We're a dreadful pair," Penny agreed amiably as she dished herself up a generous helping of meat and potatoes. "Any gravy, Mrs. Gallup?"
"No, your father ate it all and I don't feel like making any more."
"Of course not. I have a big plate of food now. Just leave that pan of dishes, Mrs. Gallup, and I'll do them for you."
The housekeeper immediately softened. "You may wipe them if you like," she said. "I am tired tonight. I don't mean to be cross, only it's annoying to have folks late for meals. I like food to be eaten when it's good and hot."
"You're a dear," Penny laughed, giving her a squeeze. "I'll try not be late again."
After the dishes were stacked in the cupboard, Penny spent a half hour reading, then she went to bed although it was only a little after eight o'clock. She could not remember when she had been so tired.
"You're not sick?" Mrs. Gallup inquired anxiously, for usually Penny was the last one in the house to retire.
"No, I'm all right. Just sleepy."
Penny might have added that she was likewise blue and discouraged. It seemed to her that she had made no progress at all in trying to solve the mystery which surrounded Amy Coulter.
As she slowly mounted the stairs, Penny's attention was attracted by someone standing by the garage door. She paused, thinking that it might be her father. To her astonishment, the man darted back behind a group of tall bushes which banked the building.
Penny snapped out the light and watched. The man did not reappear.
"What are you doing?" Mrs. Gallup questioned.
"I think someone is watching the house. I just saw a man by the garage."
"Oh! I'll call the police!"
"No, wait!" Penny commanded. "I may have been mistaken." She said it to reassure the housekeeper.
Mrs. Gallup came to the window and peered out. There was no sign of anyone about the grounds.
"I'll take a flashlight and investigate," Penny proposed.
Mrs. Gallup caught her firmly by the arm. "You'll do nothing of the kind. We'll lock all the doors and not stir from the house until your father returns!"
The housekeeper insisted upon drawing all the blinds and fastening the doors and windows. It seemed an unnecessary precaution to Penny who believed that the prowler had gone.
An hour slipped by and the man was not seen again. Penny went wearily to bed, but Mrs. Gallup was so nervous that she declared her intention of remaining up until Mr. Nichols arrived home.
The detective drove in shortly after ten o'clock and Penny could hear the two talking in the living room. She dropped off to sleep before her father came upstairs.
In the morning Penny awoke feeling refreshed and cheerful again. After breakfast she walked to the post office, stationing herself near the General Delivery window. For an hour she watched men and women come and go, claiming their mail at the little window. George Hoges did not appear, but Penny had scarcely dared to hope that he would come so soon.
Presently, she walked over to the window and questioned the clerk who was in charge.
"Can you tell me if a man by the name of George Hoges gets his mail here?"
The clerk thumbed through a stack of letters before answering. "I don't remember the man but he'll probably call here sooner or later for he has two letters."
Penny retreated to her post near the door. It was tedious waiting.
"When I get to be a taxpayer I'll vote for chairs in every post office!" she thought.
Penny spent nearly the entire day waiting for George Hoges to appear. By nightfall she was so weary she could scarcely stumble home. She felt certain she would not have the fortitude to resume her watch the following day.
Mr. Nichols was amused when she told him of her unpleasant experience.
"A detective must learn to spend half of his time just waiting," he declared. "Why, I've handled cases where we assign men to watch a certain street corner. Perhaps they'll be required to keep it up for six months."
"That's a long time."
"Not if the man you're after comes along in the end."
"If I keep up my vigil even six days I'll have corns on the bottom of my feet," Penny sighed. "Everything considered, I don't believe I'm cut out to be a lady detective."
However, the following day found her again at her station in the post office. The task of waiting and watching seemed even more tiresome than before. When she came home late in the afternoon Mrs. Gallup offered scant sympathy.
"I never heard of such a silly thing," she declared. "Standing all day in the post office! I don't know why your father permits you to play around at being a detective!"
"If you think it's play just try standing in one spot for eight hours!" Penny said indignantly.
"I'd have better sense," Mrs. Gallup retorted. Then she softened. "I know you're tired, Penny. Sit down and rest while I make you a cup of hot chocolate."
With a blissful sigh, Penny sank into an upholstered chair. She was looking at a magazine when the housekeeper returned with a pot of chocolate.
"Here is a letter for you," she mentioned, dropping it into the girl's lap. "It came this afternoon."
Noticing that it was postmarked Belton City, Penny quickly tore it open. The envelope contained a brief note from Amy Coulter, who had written to give her new address.
For a long time after she had finished reading the message, Penny sat staring down at it without being aware of her preoccupation.
"I hope it isn't bad news," Mrs. Gallup said anxiously.
"Oh, no." Penny folded the message and thrust it into her pocket. "I was only thinking."
Her thoughts had not been pleasant. She still liked Amy Coulter despite the girl's strange actions, yet she felt that she could not continue to help her without positive proof of her innocence. If only Amy had explained her connection with George Hoges!
"You haven't been a bit like your usual self, Penny," Mrs. Gallup said severely. "You're not sick, are you?"
"Of course not. I'm just tired."
"You've had too much excitement lately. It seems to me this household is always in turmoil. The past week all I've heard of is robberies, prowlers and more robberies!"
"At least we've had no murder yet," Penny chuckled. "By the way, what did Dad say last night when you told him about the man we saw hiding behind the garage?"
"He thought probably it was some crank. But I noticed he examined the ground for footprints."
"Perhaps the prowler was the same person who broke into Dad's office," Penny remarked. "Only that doesn't seem reasonable either, for what could anyone be after here at the house?"
"Silverware or possibly some of your father's papers."
"He doesn't keep anything of great value here as far as I know."
Before Mrs. Gallup could make a response the telephone rang and she went to answer it.
"Can you come, Penny?" she called a moment later. "It's for you."
The girl hurried to the adjoining room and was surprised as she took the receiver to hear Mrs. Dillon's voice. The woman was greatly agitated.
"Miss Nichols, you were right about the picture," she began abruptly. "I communicated with the museum authorities as I promised and they told me that the painting is a fake!"
"I thought it would turn out that way," Penny commented in satisfaction.
"I can't understand how I was duped," Mrs. Dillon went on excitedly. "I was so careful. I've been cheated out of four thousand dollars."
"Four thousand!" Penny exclaimed. "Why yesterday you told me you had paid only half that sum."
"Since then I've made the final payment."
"But I warned you, Mrs. Dillon," Penny cried in exasperation. "Why did you do it?"
"Because I couldn't help myself," the woman wailed. "My friend—the agent convinced me that if I didn't complete the payments I would get into serious trouble with the police—that we both would be disgraced."
"And you believed his story! He only cheated you!"
"No, he wouldn't do that," Mrs. Dillon replied firmly. "This gentleman's reputation is above reproach. He couldn't have known any more than I did that the Rembrandt was a fake."
"The only thing for you to do now is to reveal everything," Penny urged. "Tell me the name of this man."
"No, I can't. I have promised to keep silent."
"Mrs. Dillon, I am unable to understand your attitude. Don't you want to help capture the persons who tricked you?"
"Yes, I'll do anything I can except reveal this gentleman's identity. I'll learn from him the name of the firm where the picture was bought and notify the police."
Penny made a grimace which Mrs. Dillon could not see. After a moment's silence, she asked bluntly:
"Is it Hanley Cron whom you are protecting?"
"Certainly not," Mrs. Dillon retorted, and hung up the receiver.
"I wonder if she told the truth?" Penny thought, turning from the telephone. "At least she was afraid to answer any more questions."
It occurred to the girl that if Hanley Cron were not the mysterious agent who had visited Mrs. Dillon the previous afternoon, then the caller must have been the elderly gentleman with the black leather brief case. Recalling that she still had the license number of the man's car, Penny thought that it might be well to show it to her father and ask him to trace the owner for her. Mr. Nichols would soon be coming home for it was nearly dinner time.
Penny searched in her purse but the notebook was not there.
"Mrs. Gallup, have you seen a little green paper-covered book anywhere in the house?" she inquired anxiously.
"I saw it in your room this morning," the housekeeper informed. "I think it was on the dresser."
"Oh, yes, I remember now, that was where I left it!" Penny laughed in relief.
She raced up the stairs two at a time, forgetting that she had ever been tired. To her delight the little book was lying just where she had dropped it.
She caught it up, rereading the notations which she had made the previous day. Hearing her father's car on the driveway, she slipped the notebook into her pocket and turned to leave. As she crossed to the door, her eye chanced to rove toward the desk. She stared in blank amazement.
The Black Imp was gone.
Penny's cry of alarm brought Mrs. Gallup hurrying up the stairs.
"What is the matter?" the housekeeper asked anxiously.
"The Black Imp is gone!" Penny exclaimed. "Did you do anything with it?"
"Why, no. It was on the desk the last time I saw it."
"It isn't there now. Someone has stolen it!"
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Gallup said impatiently. "Who would want that little statue? If a thief entered the house he would take things of greater value than that. You must have put it in a different place and forgotten about it."
"Oh, but I didn't, Mrs. Gallup. The Imp was on the desk this morning when I left the house."
"Well, I've not seen it." The housekeeper began to open bureau drawers, for despite Penny's words she was not entirely convinced that the girl had left the statue on the desk. Penny often misplaced cherished possessions only to spend an unhappy hour trying to recall where she had deposited them.
"It's no use to search, Mrs. Gallup," she wailed disconsolately. "The Black Imp is gone and will never be found."
"But no one has been in the house all day."
"The window is open," Penny observed. "I know I closed it this morning before I left the house."
The bedroom overlooked a porch against which stood a sturdy rose trellis. It would be a simple matter for a thief to reach the window by means of it. Once when Penny had found herself locked out of the house she had tested the trellis and discovered that it made an excellent ladder.
"I did go away for an hour this afternoon," Mrs. Gallup admitted. "I went to the grocery store."
"That would be long enough for a thief to enter the house."
"But I'm sure nothing else is missing," Mrs. Gallup maintained. "It doesn't seem reasonable that anyone would steal a little statue—an unfinished one at that."
Mr. Nichols had entered the house by the rear door. He called from below:
"Anyone home?"
"We're upstairs," Penny shouted down. "A thief has been in the house!"
The detective joined the two in the bedroom. "What's all the excitement?" he demanded.
"The Black Imp has been stolen!" Penny informed.
"It seems to be missing," Mrs. Gallup corrected, "but I can't believe anyone would want that lump of clay."
Mr. Nichols did not reply as he surveyed the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place. He noted the open window instantly and crossed over to it.
"The thief entered here," he said.
"That was what I was trying to tell Mrs. Gallup," Penny cried triumphantly.
The detective picked up something from the window ledge. It was a strand of gray wool which had caught on a rough board.
He then stepped out on the top of the porch and crossed over to the place where the rose trellis projected.
"Be careful," Mrs. Gallup warned anxiously as she saw that the detective intended to climb down the fragile wooden framework.
"The trellis is strong enough to hold a man much heavier than myself," Mr. Nichols replied. "And I see the thief came this way too!"
"How can you tell?" Penny questioned eagerly.
"The rose bush has been broken off in several places."
Mrs. Gallup was somewhat disconcerted by the discovery. Fearing that other things besides the Black Imp might have been stolen she hastened downstairs to make a thorough search. Penny joined her father outside the house.
"What do you make of it, Dad?" she inquired. "Why did the thief break in?"
"Obviously for the Black Imp."
"But who would be interested in it and for what reason?"
"I can't answer that one, Penny. But I'm wondering if this theft could have anything to do with Max Lynch's visit to my office."
"He appeared frightened when he saw the Imp on your desk!" Penny recalled.
"Yes, he turned and fled without revealing his mission."
"And directly after that your office was ransacked."
"Yes, but that may or may not have had any connection."
"Then I noticed a man prowling about the house," Penny continued. "He must have been the one who stole the Imp!"
"You weren't able to furnish a very good description of the man."
"No, I caught only a fleeting glimpse of his face."
"It wasn't Max Lynch?"
"I'm sure it wasn't, Dad. I'd have recognized him instantly, for his appearance is distinctive."
Mr. Nichols bent down to examine a footprint in the soft earth beneath the rose trellis. He measured it with his hand.
"The thief must wear about a size eleven shoe," he mentioned, "and a gray suit of excellent quality. Other than that, I'm afraid we have no clues."
"Why should anyone want my copy of the Black Imp?" Penny repeated in a bewildered tone. "Dad, you don't suppose Hanley Cron considered it his property and dared to take it?"
"That's a possibility," Mr. Nichols agreed after a moment of thought. "From the first his connection with the Imp has been odd to say the least. I'll have a talk with him tomorrow and see what I can learn."
When Penny and her father entered the house, Mrs. Gallup was still searching the lower floor.
"Anything more missing?" the detective asked.
"Not that I can discover. The silver is all here."
"Apparently only the Black Imp was taken," Mr. Nichols said musingly. "That little figure must guard some important secret."
"I never dreamed it could be valuable," Penny said. "I liked it only because it was a copy of Amy's statue. I thought the work rather crude."
"I doubt that the figure has any intrinsic value," Mr. Nichols answered slowly, "but for some unknown reason, it's highly important to the man who stole it."
That evening Penny accompanied her chum, Susan, to a moving picture show, but although the bill was an exceptionally good one, she found it difficult to center her attention upon the screen. She kept thinking of the Black Imp and wishing that she could recover it or at least solve the mystery of its strange disappearance.
"I'm afraid I'll just have to forget it," she thought gloomily, "but at least I'm making a little headway in tracing the persons who may know something about the stolen Rembrandt."
Penny was convinced that if only she could maintain a patient vigil at the Post Office, in time the ex-museum worker would appear there for his mail. The next morning found her at her usual station, determined not to become discouraged by failure.
For three long hours she kept faithful watch of the General Delivery window. A great many persons came and went but no one who remotely resembled Mr. Hoges. Penny became aware of a growing hunger although it was not yet noon. She noticed a restaurant directly across the street.
"I'll slip over there and have a sandwich," she decided. "It will only take a minute."
The restaurant was crowded. It was impossible for Penny to find a table near the window. She was forced to sit at the rear of the room and other diners blocked her view of the street.
She hastily ate her sandwich and returned to the post office. Scarcely had she taken her position near the door, when the clerk at the General Delivery window signalled her.
"Weren't you the girl who wanted to see George Hoges?"
"Yes, I am."
"He just called for his mail a few minutes ago."
Penny's heart sank. After waiting nearly two days she had missed the man. And it was entirely her own fault.
"You didn't see which direction he went?"
"No, I didn't," the clerk answered. "But he left only a minute or so before you came in."
"Then maybe I can still catch him," Penny said hopefully.
She ran from the building, pausing on the outside steps to survey the street. A man who from a distance resembled the ex-museum worker was just turning the corner.
"I believe it's Mr. Hoges!" she thought excitedly.
Penny raced to the corner. The man was only a little ways ahead, and as he paused for an instant to glance into a shop window, she caught a glimpse of his face. It was George Hoges.
Penny's original intention had been to question the man, but now she slightly altered her plan. She would follow him.
The ex-museum worker walked rapidly down the street with Penny in close pursuit. However, she took care not to draw too near, fearing that he might glance back and recognize her.
At first Hoges kept to the main streets, but presently he turned toward a section which was somewhat deserted. Penny was forced to drop farther behind. They came soon to a factory district with many vacant buildings, similar in many respects to the Franklyn Street section.
Hoges halted in front of an old building, and disappeared inside. When Penny drew near a minute later, he was nowhere to be seen.
The office directory was of no use, for not a single listed name was familiar to the girl. However, Penny had a suspicion that the man she sought might have engaged the top floor of the building. She was thinking of mounting the stairs when the janitor appeared.
"Looking for someone?" he inquired.
"Yes, but I don't know his name," Penny replied. "He is an artist I think."
"The top floor is rented to a firm of commercial artists," the man informed.
"That must be the place I'm looking for. Thank you."
Penny slowly mounted four long flights of stairs, pausing at the top landing to regain her breath.
She observed with keen interest that several doors opened off the hallway and each bore a freshly lettered sign:
"Private—Keep Out."
Penny glanced down the stairs to make certain that the janitor had not followed her. Then she tiptoed along the hall, pausing by the first door to listen. She could hear an indistinct murmur of voices. Now and then she caught a few words.
"The girl sent it back," she overheard. And then, a moment later: "We'll have to find someone to do her work. She may take it into her silly head to squeal too."
Could the men be speaking of Amy Coulter? Penny felt sure that the letter Hoges had received at General Delivery had come from her.
A loud creaking sound from the direction of the stairway caused Penny to straighten up and listen intently. Someone was coming! While it might be only the janitor she did not wish to be seen. Frantically, she glanced about for a hiding place.
At the end of the hall a broom closet stood with door slightly ajar. She darted to it and shut herself inside, leaving a wide crack through which she could look out.
The corridor was dark. At first she could not see the newcomer very plainly. She distinguished only a tall, shadowy form.
However, as he paused at the very door where Penny had stood listening only a moment before, she caught an excellent glimpse of his face. She saw then, with a start of recognition, that it was Hanley Cron.
The art critic rapped three times on the door. It opened instantly and closed after him as he vanished inside.
After waiting a few minutes, Penny tiptoed back down the hall. Her suspicions had been aroused and she was determined to learn what was going on inside the room.
She paused at the door and listened again. She could hear voices but this time it was impossible to catch even a word.
Penny moved on to the next door. She gently turned the knob. The door was locked. So were all the others along the corridor until she came to the last one.
To Penny's surprise, it opened. Cautiously, she peeped inside. The room appeared to be empty. She entered.
It was only a small office, empty of furniture. A few papers were scattered over the bare floor, but upon examination Penny found them of no significance. It was clear that if she were to learn anything of value, she must find a means of entering the room where Hanley Cron, the ex-museum worker and the others were talking.
An inside door opened into an adjoining room. Penny was elated to find it unlocked. But her satisfaction was of short duration, for the next office likewise was empty and devoid of any clues.
By placing her ear against the north wall, she was able to hear the three men talking. It was provoking to be so close and yet unable to learn what they were saying. She felt convinced that if only she could hear their conversation, a great many puzzling matters might be cleared up.
Presently, Penny heard a door slam. She peeped out into the hallway in time to see Cron, Hoges and another man disappearing down the stairway.
"The coast is clear now!" she thought. "If I can just find some way to enter that room while they're away!"
She made another tour of the hall, trying the door. As she had anticipated it was locked.
Returning to the room she had just left, she went to the window and looked out. A wide ledge of stone extended along the wall of the building, connecting the windows. At best it offered a dangerous footing. Yet Penny was tempted to try to reach the adjoining room by means of it, for there was no other way to gain admittance.
She raised the window and looked down. Her courage nearly failed her. While the ledge was wide, it meant a long fall and instant death should she become dizzy and lose her balance.
"I can do it—easy," Penny told herself grimly.
Climbing out on the ledge, she clutched an overhanging telephone wire for support and cautiously eased herself along, an inch at a time. She kept her gaze ahead, resisting the temptation to glance toward the deserted street.
She reached the next window which was open an inch at the bottom. The gap provided a finger-hold and enabled her to raise the window. With a sigh of intense relief, she dropped lightly to the floor.
She found herself in a large, studio room, well illuminated by two sky lights. Obviously, several artists had been working there, for the place was cluttered with easels, palettes, and discarded paintings. A number of pictures of uniform size stood in a little pile, face downward.
Curiously, Penny lifted one to gaze at it.
"The stolen Rembrandt!" she gasped.
Then she knew better. It was only a copy, identical with the one she had viewed at Mrs. Dillon's home.
She lifted the other pictures and looked at them. They were all the same.
"So this is where Mrs. Dillon's fake came from!" she thought. "The men who rented this place apparently are manufacturing Rembrandts in wholesale quantities!"
At the other side of the room she noticed a picture which was only half finished, and beside it a canvas covered easel. She crossed over to lift the protecting cloth.
Still another Rembrandt was revealed.
"Just a copy," Penny told herself, and started to replace the canvas.
Then she looked at the picture again. It did not look exactly like the others. The detail was the same, yet this painting seemed to have a depth and quality which the others lacked. Penny wondered if it could be the original Rembrandt, the priceless painting which had been stolen from the Gage Galleries.
"I believe it is!" she decided.
As Penny stood gazing at the picture, she was dismayed to hear footsteps in the hallway. Frantically, she looked about for a hiding place.
It was too late to escape through the window. The only refuge available was a clothes closet.
Penny darted inside and softly shut the door. Scarcely had she secreted herself when three men entered the room. Peering out through the keyhole, she distinguished Cron, Hoges, and the man in gray whom she had once followed to the Franklyn Street address. Apparently, the men had returned for something they had forgotten. Hanley Cron searched in a table drawer.
"Say, who left that window open?" he demanded unexpectedly.
"I didn't," Hoges said.
"You can't blame me for it," the other man growled. "Probably you opened it yourself."
"I did not," Cron retorted. He crossed the room and slammed down the window. "Be careful about things like that. If we're not more cautious we'll have the cops on us."
"If you ask me, I think it's about time we blow," Hoges commented. "This town is getting pretty hot for us."
"Maybe you're right," Cron muttered. "I had a disagreeable hour with that simple minded Mrs. Dillon. She's still afraid to notify the police, but that Nichols girl has been talking with her, and she may make us trouble."
"Christopher Nichols has been assigned to the jewel case too," Hoges added. "He's no sloth when it comes to action!"
"Our game has just about played out," Cron agreed. "But I have one more good customer lined up. I told him to come here at one-thirty to see the picture."
"Maybe we could pull this last job," Hoges agreed. "Does he know much about painting?"
"Very little. We ought to nip him for three thousand at least."
Hoges glanced at his watch.
"If your customer is coming at one-thirty we'd better get the stage set."
"All right," Cron nodded. "Let's clean up the joint."
Uncovering the genuine Rembrandt, he took one of the copies, and deftly inserted it in the picture frame behind the original painting, but in such a manner that only the back of the canvas was visible. When the frame was replaced only a person with keen eyesight could detect the trickery.
"We'll pull the usual gag about identifying the picture with a signature or a symbol," Cron muttered. "That always goes big."
By this time Penny had seen enough to understand how Mrs. Dillon and other gullible customers had been duped. They had been shown the original stolen Rembrandt, but when invited to place an identifying mark on the back of the canvas to insure that they received the same picture, actually signed the fake copy. It was then a simple matter to remove the two paintings from the frame and send the customer the worthless one which bore his mark.
"Cron and his confederates have worked a fairly safe racket too," Penny thought. "Even if a customer learns he has been cheated, he's afraid to go to the police for fear he'll expose himself as a person willing to buy stolen property!"
She was not greatly surprised to learn that Cron was a party to the dishonest scheme, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dillon had denied the art critic was the mysterious agent who had visited her. Now Penny knew that the woman had not spoken the truth. Doubtlessly, she had feared to accuse Cron, lest he in turn expose her to the police.
A knock sounded on the door. Cron and his confederates froze into tense attitudes, then relaxed.
"It must be our customer," Cron whispered. "Open the door."
As it swung back, Max Lynch stepped into the room. He smiled blandly.
"Hello, boys. You don't look as if you were expecting me."
"We weren't—exactly," Cron muttered. "What do you want, Max? You know I've warned you not to come here."
The gambler had been making a quick survey of the room. His eyes came to rest on the Rembrandt. He smiled again, unpleasantly.
"Say, who are you anyway?" Hoges demanded angrily. "What business do you have with us?"
"My business is with your pal, Hanley Cron. We're partners."
"Partners?" Hoges echoed, his eyes narrowing. He wheeled toward Cron. "If you've been double crossing me——"
"Oh, calm down," Cron said sharply. "Lynch and I had a little private business together but it has nothing to do with the picture racket."
"I'm not so sure about that," the other retorted. "You've been collecting all the money. Maybe you've stuck some of it into your pocket."
"I didn't come here to start an argument," Lynch interposed. "But I'll not stand for any monkey business either. Hand over the pearls, Cron!"
"I don't have them. I told you once that girl——"
"Yes, you've told me a good many things, Cron. But I happen to know you have the necklace. Hand it over or——"
The threat was left unsaid for at that unfortunate moment Penny felt an overpowering impulse to sneeze. She buried her face in her handkerchief but succeeded in only partially muffling the sound.
Immediately, the closet door was flung open and she was found cowering there. Cron dragged her from her hiding place.
"So you've been listening!" he sneered.
"Yes," said Penny boldly. "And I've heard enough to confirm what I've always believed. You are the person who stole the Rembrandt from the Gage Galleries! You're a cheap trickster who pawns himself off as a gentleman!"
As she uttered the tirade, the girl made a quick dive for the door, but Max Lynch caught her by the arm and flung her back.
"Not so fast, Miss Nichols," he muttered. "This is once when you won't go tattling to the police or to that father of yours!"
The discovery of Penny hiding in the closet had brought an abrupt end to the quarrel. In the face of the new emergency, the four crooks laid differences aside to consider what must be done.
"Tie her up!" Cron ordered harshly.
Penny's arms and legs were securely bound with stout cord, a gag was drawn over her mouth, and she was unceremoniously thrown back into the closet. But she could still hear the men talking.
"This changes all our plans," Cron said. "If this girl knew enough to follow us here, the police may soon be on our trail. We must get out of town."
"Not without dividing on that necklace job we planned together," Lynch interposed angrily. "You'll never leave town until you cough up."
Hoges and his unnamed companion were regarding Cron with open suspicion.
"You've been holding out on us," they accused the art critic.
Cron realized that he had placed himself in an awkward position.
"All right, I'll admit I have the pearl necklace," he said shortly. "We'll split four ways, and then no one can kick."
Max Lynch did not like the decision, but after grumbling a little, he unwillingly agreed.
"Now let's get out of here!" Cron urged nervously. "The necklace is at my room. We'll have to go there."
"What about the Rembrandt?" Hoges asked, turning to look at it.
"Take my advice and leave it behind," Lynch spoke up. "That picture is as hot as a rivet. It's a bulky thing to tote around the country as luggage too."
"How about the girl?" Hoges demanded.
Cron hesitated only a fraction of an instant. "Leave her in the closet."
"Maybe she won't be found very soon," Lynch remarked.
"That's her hard luck," Cron retorted. "We have to look out for ourselves."
"Okay," Lynch agreed indifferently. "Let's go."
The men hastily gathered up a few possessions which if left behind might serve to identify them. Then they went out the door, locking it after them.
Penny heard the key turn in the lock, and her heart sank. With a gag over her mouth, she could not even call for help. She was indeed in a desperate plight.
Penny worked at her bonds, but the cords had been fastened securely and she could not free herself. Exhausted, she lay quiet, trying to think of some way to attract attention. She thumped with her feet on the floor of the closet, but minutes passed and no one came to her assistance.
It was useless, she thought miserably. There was scant chance that anyone would discover her until it was too late. How maddening it was to know that while she remained helpless, Cron and his confederates were escaping from the city!
Now that the knowledge was valueless to her, she comprehended the entire plot. Cron and Hoges had worked together, and the latter had smuggled the genuine Rembrandt from the Gage Galleries just as she had suspected. Then instead of trying to sell the stolen picture they made copies of it, disposing of the duplicate many times and at a handsome profit.
Penny was not certain as to Max Lynch's connection with the men, but mention of the pearls suggested to her that Cron and the gambler had relieved Mrs. Dillon of her necklace. She recalled that the art critic had made a point of learning the exact hour when the woman would carry the pearls to the bank vault. Was it not likely that he had proposed the meeting solely as a means of providing an opportunity for the robbery?
When Penny considered Amy Coulter's part in the affair, she was without a theory. She wondered if she would ever know whether or not the girl was involved with the gang.
Presently Penny became aware of a crackling noise in the building. At first she paid it slight heed, but as the strange sound became louder, she listened intently. She could hear timbers snapping and cracking and the interior of the closet was growing uncomfortably warm. Even then the horrible truth did not dawn upon her.
She heard excited shouts and running footsteps. Suddenly Penny distinguished a cry which struck terror to her heart.
"Fire! Fire!"
She was momentarily stunned. Then, realizing that she was trapped in a burning building, she struggled desperately to free herself. She kicked with all her strength against the floor and walls of the closet. Finally, she succeeded in loosening her gag.
"Help! Help!" she screamed.
Her voice sounded muffled and weak. The top floor was without tenants, and Penny knew that the chance of anyone hearing her was very slight. She was doomed to a horrible fate.
Her courage failed her for the moment and she sobbed in terror. But she soon had herself in check again and was struggling to free herself. It seemed to her that the cords which held her wrists were a trifle looser—she worked at the knots with her teeth.
From below she heard a loud clanging, and the shrill whistle of a fire siren. New hope surged over her. Perhaps the firemen who had arrived upon the scene would reach her in time!
"Even if they shoot a ladder up to the window they'll never think anyone could be tied up in the closet," she reasoned. "If I'm to escape, it will be from my own efforts."
Penny knew that the fire was rapidly spreading, for she could hear a steady roar which rapidly grew louder. The closet was so warm that she found difficulty in breathing. She could plainly smell smoke.
Then suddenly, almost when she had given up hope, she was free. Her wrists were bruised and bleeding but that was of no consequence. It required only an instant to untie the cords which bound her ankles.
A new fear assailed her. The closet door might be locked!
She turned the knob and laughed aloud in hysterical relief. It had not been locked. But as she darted out into the room she inhaled smoke-laden air and began to cough and choke. Covering her face with her dress, she groped her way to the door.
It did not give as she tried it. Then she remembered that Cron and his confederates had locked it from the outside.
She threw herself against the wooden panels with all her strength, but quickly comprehended that she could not break them. She ran to the window and looked down.
Smoke was swirling upward in such large black clouds that she caught only an indistinct view of the street below. The big red fire engine had pulled up beside the building and rubber-coated men were squirting streams of water on the roaring blaze.
Penny lifted the window sill and climbed out on the ledge. She clung there, waving one hand to attract attention to her plight.
Below, when the smoke cleared a little, she could see a solid bank of spectators, edged off neatly by a cordon of police. Others were trying to push their way through the crowd. A great clanging of bells announced the arrival of another fire company. It pulled in alongside the one already on the job.
With the precision of a war machine, the newcomers drove into action. A hydrant was quickly tapped and a long reel of hose swiftly unwound and connected. A water tower arose from the ground as if by magic, and soon a great stream was pouring from its peak into the blazing building.
Penny shouted for help, although she knew her voice would not carry above the roar of the flames. Then as she was beginning to despair, she was seen.
With quick discipline, the firemen placed a ladder directly beneath the window. Slowly it arose, section on section.
Now that rescue was in sight, Penny suddenly vanished through the window back into the room from which she had escaped. The crowd below groaned in unison, fearing that the girl had lost her courage and was afraid to descend the ladder from such a height.
But Penny quickly reappeared at the window, bearing two bulky objects in her arms. She had determined to save the stolen Rembrandt and one of the copies which would serve as damaging evidence against Cron and his confederates.
A fireman swiftly mounted the ladder to help the girl descend.
"You'll have to leave those pictures," he said tersely. "This wall is about ready to fall and we have to work fast."
"I can't leave them behind," Penny wailed. "This one painting is worth thousands of dollars!"
"Then give them to me," the fireman ordered tersely.
He helped Penny step from the ledge to the ladder.
"Don't look down," he commanded.
Penny gripped the sides of the ladder, descending very slowly, with the fireman just below to steady her should she grow dizzy. She was not afraid although the ladder weaved under her weight. Even when a cloud of dense smoke caused her to choke and cough, she did not falter.
As the ground loomed up, she glanced back at the window ledge where she had clung only a moment before. Flames were shooting out, licking greedily at the top rungs of the ladder.
A great shout went up from the crowd as Penny stepped to the ground uninjured.
"Here you are, Miss, safe and sound," the fireman said grimly. "And just in time too!"
Scarcely had the ladders been removed from the building when the wall fell inward. Penny did not speak for a minute. Now that it was all over, she felt weak and shaken. Her escape had been such a narrow one.
"Are you all right?" the fireman asked, taking her arm.
"Quite," Penny smiled. "You needn't hold me. I'll not faint."
"You have pluck, Miss. And your wrists are cut too. I'll call the doctor."
"No, don't bother. It's nothing," Penny protested. "Where are my pictures?"
"Here." The fireman handed them over to her. "It was foolish going back after them. You might have lost your life."
"I realize that now," Penny responded soberly, "but I just had to get those pictures. Thank you for helping me save them."
Before she could add that she felt deeply grateful for her own rescue as well, the fireman was called to another post.
With a policeman as a bodyguard, Penny pushed her way through the crowd, the precious Rembrandt and the duplicate clutched under her arm.
"I'll send you to the hospital where you can have those wrists properly dressed," the policeman said. "How did you cut them?"
"Trying to get out of the closet," Penny answered. "I was bound and gagged and locked in."
Tersely, in response to the officer's questions, she related her terrifying experience in the studio, and displayed the paintings as evidence of the plot in which Cron and his friends were involved.
"If the police go to Cron's studio right away they may be able to capture the entire gang," she finished. "But there's not a second to lose!"
"Leave it to me," the policeman assured her grimly.
He communicated with headquarters and in an incredibly short time a squad car picked up Penny and the officer, driving with all speed toward the studio of Hanley Cron.