Penny made no reply to Pauletta and the silence became unbearable.
“Won’t you stay for a few minutes?” Mr. Judson invited. “Pauletta, why not show Miss Parker our rose garden?”
“It’s rather dark,” his daughter replied. “Anyway, she wouldn’t care to see it.”
“Indeed, I should,” contradicted Penny. Deliberately she switched off the car ignition.
Pauletta glared at her, but dared make no protest in her father’s presence. With a shrug she led Penny along a gravel path to the rear of the house. Mr. Judson remained behind.
As soon as they were beyond hearing, Penny said quietly:
“Need we pretend? I am sure you recall that we met aboard theGoodtime.”
“Yes, I remember now,” admitted Pauletta coldly. “You were with another girl.”
“And you were accompanied by a young man.”
“A friend of mine.”
“This may be something of a shock,” said Penny, “but my chum and I saw you drop a bundle containing a wig into the river.”
“Oh!”
“The bundle caught fast and I fished it out.”
“You have no proof it was mine! You—you won’t tell Father?”
“Not if you can offer a good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“There are any number of them. You mustn’t tell my father! That’s why I pretended not to know you.”
“I certainly wish you would explain. Tillie Fellows was robbed that night.”
“Who is Tillie Fellows?”
“One of the excursionists. Her pocketbook was taken shortly before the boat docked.”
“You can’t believe I had anything to do with it!”
“I don’t wish to think so, but your actions were very strange.”
“I can explain everything,” Pauletta said hurriedly. “My reason for wearing a disguise was a simple one. I didn’t care to have anyone on the boat recognize me.”
“Why, may I ask?”
Before Pauletta could answer, Mr. Judson came around the corner of the house.
“Please say nothing about it to Father,” the young woman pleaded in a whisper. “I’ll explain everything later.”
Penny nodded, and for Mr. Judson’s benefit, offered a few remarks about the roses.
“We once had a beautiful garden,” commented Pauletta. “Now it’s in ruin, the same as the yard. Father doesn’t look after the place as he should.”
“The grounds are large,” replied Mr. Judson mildly.
“You shouldn’t try to do the work yourself,” Pauletta protested. “It was foolish of you to let the gardener go.”
Penny felt increasingly ill at ease. As they wandered about the grounds, Pauletta kept making disparaging remarks, thoughtless comments which wounded her father. However, he offered no rebuttal, nor did he reprove his daughter.
“I really must be going,” said Penny at last. “It’s getting very dark.”
Mr. Judson walked with her to the car, closing the gate after she had driven from the grounds. He stood there a moment, the wind rumpling his gray hair. Then he raised his hand in friendly salute and turned toward the house.
“Poor Mr. Judson,” she thought. “So discouraged and yet so gallant! How can Pauletta be completely blind to his suffering? Doesn’t she realize?”
Penny did not regret having kept the young woman’s secret, for she felt that the revelation of their meeting would only add to Mr. Judson’s troubles. Pauletta represented his entire life, and if it developed that she had acted unbecomingly, the shock might be a severe one.
“I can’t believe that Pauletta would steal,” she told herself. “She must have had another reason for wearing the disguise.”
Penny was satisfied that if Mr. Judson had not interrupted, the young woman would have explained her puzzling actions. Therefore, she was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She made up her mind that she would return as soon as she could to talk privately with Pauletta.
The Parker house was dark and deserted when Penny let herself in with a key. Her father had not expected her home so early and, disliking an empty house, had remained away. There was no telling where he had gone.
After preparing a belated dinner for herself, Penny spent an hour with her studies. However, her mind kept reverting to the events of the day. A great deal had happened. Her meeting with Peter Fenestra had been interesting. Anchor Joe’s mishap worried her, and she remained disturbed by the threatening message left on her desk.
“Could it have been written by a prowler in the building?” she mused. “Ever since we started the paper I’ve felt that someone was hiding there. It may be a scheme to get me away.”
Before dropping off to sleep Penny made up her mind that the following night she would set a trap for the intruder. Taking Louise into her confidence, she made careful plans. Preparing a tasty lunch, the girls wrapped and laid it conspicuously on the counter of the downstairs advertising room.
“Now the stage is set,” declared Penny. “Louise, you go upstairs to my office and tap on the typewriter. I’ll hide here and see what happens.”
After Louise had gone, Penny secreted herself in a storage closet not far from the counter. By leaving the door open she could see fairly well in the dark room for street lights cast a reflection through the plate glass windows.
The minutes stretched into a half hour. Louise’s typewriting, at first very energetic, began to slacken in speed. Penny moved restlessly in the cramped quarters. She had not imagined that waiting could be so tedious.
An hour elapsed. Far down the street a clock struck ten times.
With a weary sigh Penny arose from the floor. Inactivity bored her, and she no longer could sit quietly and wait.
As she started from her hiding place, intending to call Louise, a door opened at the west end of the room. Instantly Penny froze against the wall, waiting.
A flashlight beam played across the floor, missing her by a scant two feet.
Penny, her heart beating at a furious rate, remained motionless. She could see the squat, shadowy figure of a man moving toward her. Boards squeaked beneath his weight.
Midway across the room, the man paused, evidently listening to the steady clatter of Louise’s typewriter. Satisfied, he went to the window where he stood for several minutes watching street traffic.
As he turned again, the beam of his flashlight swept across the front counter, focusing upon the package of food. The man gave a low exclamation of pleasure. With the swiftness of a cat he darted to it and tore off the paper wrapping.
Penny waited until he was eating greedily. Then stealing along the wall, she groped for the electric light switch. As she pressed it, the room was brilliantly illuminated. At the same instant, the girl gave a shrill whistle, a signal to Louise that the culprit had been trapped.
The man at the counter whirled around, facing Penny with startled dismay. He was a gaunt, unshaven fellow in his late fifties with shaggy hair, and soiled, unpressed clothing.
Before he could retreat, Louise came down the stairway, blocking the exit.
“What are you doing here?” Penny questioned him. “Why did you steal my lunch?”
The man’s lips moved nervously but no sound issued from them.
“Shall I call the police?” prodded Penny. She gave him a severe glance.
“No, don’t do that,” the man pleaded, finding his voice. “Don’t call the police. I’ll go. I won’t bother you any more.”
“Why have you been hiding in the building?”
“Because I have no other place to sleep, Miss. The cops chase you off the park benches.”
Penny was surprised by the man’s speech which belied his disreputable garments. His tone was well modulated, his manner respectful.
“You’ve been living in this building a long while?” she asked curiously.
“Maybe six months. I sleep down in the furnace room. I didn’t do any harm.”
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Penny inquired, less severely.
“Yes, I am, Miss. Lately I haven’t been eating any too often.”
“You may finish the lunch,” said Penny. “And there’s a thermos bottle of coffee under the counter.”
“Thank you, Miss, thank you. I surely am obliged.”
With a hand which trembled, the man poured himself a cup of the steaming beverage.
“You haven’t told me your name,” said Penny after a moment.
“Folks just call me Horney. Old Horney.”
“What is your real name?”
“Mark Horning,” the man answered reluctantly.
“I’m curious to learn how you’ve been getting in and out of the building.”
“With a key.” Old Horney devoured the last bite of sandwich, and poured himself a second cup of coffee.
“A skeleton key, you mean?” Penny asked in surprise.
“No, Miss. I have my own key. In the old days I used to work here.”
“You’re a formerPressemployee?”
“Sure, I know it’s hard to believe,” Old Horney replied, “but when a fellow’s out of a job and money, it doesn’t take long to go to seed. I lost my place when Judson closed down.”
“And you’ve been unable to find other work?”
“In the past nine months I’ve worked exactly six days. No one hires an old fellow any more. If I could have kept on with Judson three more years I’d have been due for my pension.”
“What work did you do on the paper?” asked Penny with growing interest.
“I was a pressman.”
Penny shot Louise a glance which was almost triumphant. Her voice when she spoke held an undertone of excitement.
“Horney,” she said, “it’s barely possible I may be able to find some sort of work for you later on. Do you mind writing your name on this paper?”
The old man took the sheet she handed him, without hesitation scrawling his name,Mark Horning.
Penny studied the writing a moment. To her relief it bore not the slightest resemblance to the warning message left on her desk the previous night.
“Horney,” she questioned, “did you ever try to frighten me away from this building?”
“Oh, no, Miss,” he replied. “Once I tiptoed up to your office. When I saw you were working there, I slipped down to the basement again.”
“Did you ever place a note on my desk?”
“I never did.”
Penny was satisfied that Horney had told the truth. Yet if he were not the culprit she was unable to guess who had warned her to abandon the plant.
“Horney, I’ve decided that we need a watchman around this place,” she said abruptly. “If you want the job, it’s yours.”
“You’re not turning me out?”
“No, you may stay. I can’t promise much of a salary, but at least you’ll have a place to sleep and enough food.”
“You’re mighty kind,” Horney mumbled gratefully. “Mighty kind.” He hesitated and then added: “I promise you won’t be sorry you did it, Miss. Maybe you’ll find I can be of some real use around this plant. I’m at your service and what’s more, I’m for you one hundred per cent.”
The next afternoon Penny and Louise arrived at theWeekly Timesto find that the entire lower floor had been cleaned and swept. Old Horney was discovered in the composing room, stirring up a great cloud of dust with a stub of a broom.
“I was just cleaning the place up a bit,” he said apologetically. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” laughed Penny. “I’m delighted. Our staff of janitors has lost interest here of late.”
“I set a little type for you last night, too.”
“Why, Horney! I didn’t know you were a linotype operator.”
“I’m not,” answered the old man, “but I can learn most anything if I set my mind to it. If you have any jobs you want done just turn them over to me.”
“Horney,” said Penny soberly, “more than anything else I would like to publish theWeeklyin my own plant. The obstacles seem almost too great to overcome; do you think it could be accomplished?”
“Why, sure,” said Horney. “If I had some tools and a little to do with I could get the presses ready in a day.”
“What about the stereotyping work?”
“I could master the trick of it,” declared Horney confidently.
“Horney, you’re a jewel!” laughed Penny. “I’ll place you in charge of my production department, but I fear I can’t give you a salary in proportion to your duties.”
“Don’t worry about that, Miss. I would rather be working than sitting around with nothing to do.”
“Then look over the plant and make up a list of the things you must have,” suggested Penny. “I’ll go over to theStarthis minute and arrange for printing paper.”
Leaving Louise in charge of the office, she jubilantly set forth for her father’s plant. Now that Old Horney had been added to the staff of theWeekly, problems which previously had seemed unsurmountable suddenly had become easily solved.
Entering theStarbuilding, Penny went directly to the stockroom, wandering about until she found Mr. Curry, the foreman.
“Here’s something for you,” she grinned, offering a slip of paper.
“What’s this?” Mr. Curry asked with a puzzled frown. “An order for a roll of paper?”
“Yes, Mr. Curry,” explained Penny. “At last I am going to publish my own sheet over in the oldPressbuilding. Dad is staking me to a little paper.”
“A little! Why, one of these big rolls would print more copies of your paper than you could sell in six months! And paper is expensive. How about a half-roll or even a quarter? It would be a lot easier to handle.”
“Oh, all right,” agreed Penny. “Just so I get enough to print my first issue.”
Mr. Curry led the way to one of the presses, pointing to a roll of paper mounted on a feeding rack.
“That one is about half used up,” he said. “Will it do?”
“Yes, I guess so,” agreed Penny. “May I have it right away?”
Mr. Curry replied by pushing a tram along a miniature railway which ran under the press. With surprising skill, he maneuvered the roll into position on the carrier. Then he pushed the tram to the elevator, moved the portable paper lift over the roll, and up it went to the platform. The elevator grounded at the first floor where the paper was rolled to the loading dock with pry bars.
“There you are,” said the foreman.
“All I need now is a truck,” Penny cried exultantly. “Thanks, Mr. Curry!”
Standing guard beside her paper she waited until one of theStardrivers had finished unloading his cargo and was ready to pull from the dock.
“How’s chances fer a ride, buddy?” asked Penny, jerking her thumb in the manner of a hitch-hiker. “Me and my paper to theWeekly Times.”
“Okay,” laughed the trucker.
He rolled the paper onto the truck, and Penny climbed into the cab beside him. At theTimesbuilding she had the roll set off at the rear entrance where Old Horney easily could get it to the press room.
Highly elated, Penny mounted the steps two at a time, bursting in upon Louise who was busy writing headlines.
“Got it!” she announced. “About six hundred pounds of paper. That should keep theWeeklygoing for awhile.”
“Here’s something to dampen your enthusiasm.” Louise thrust a letter toward her. “Another kick on that octopus tattoo story you wrote. A Mrs. Brown says she heartily disapproves of such outlandish tales, and that she’ll never buy another copy of theTimes.”
“At least it proves my story attracted attention,” chuckled Penny. “Anything else while I was gone?”
“Yes, Mrs. Weems telephoned to ask that you come to the cottage as soon as possible. And that reminds me—the telephone bill. The company requires a month’s advance—”
“Never mind the bills,” interrupted Penny. “Did Mrs. Weems say anything about Anchor Joe?”
“He appears to be much better.”
“I’m glad of that. I suppose I should drive out to the cottage before it gets dark.”
“Run along. I’ll look after everything here.”
Penny swept her desk clear of papers and locked the drawers. “If you have any spare time you might see what you can do with my algebra assignment,” she suggested. “I missed every problem but one yesterday.”
“I have my own lesson troubles,” responded Louise. “I’m wading up to my neck in Latin, and the next monthly quiz is certain to drown me.”
“Teachers have no consideration,” sighed Penny. “None at all.”
Gathering up her school books, she bade Louise good-bye and left the office. On the stairway she met Old Horney.
“I’ve made my list,” he said, offering it to her. “I figure we can’t get out the paper with less than this.”
Penny glanced at the paper and slipped it into her purse.
“I’ll get the things somehow,” she promised. “By the way, there’s a roll of paper on the loading dock.”
“I’ve already hauled ’er in,” replied Old Horney. “Any other jobs for me?”
“No, you seem to be one jump ahead,” laughed Penny.
They descended the stairway together, the steps creaking beneath their weight. There was a different look to Old Horney, Penny thought, stealing a glance at him. His hair had been cut and his face was clean-shaven. Work had given him a new outlook, a desire to recover his self respect.
“I suppose you knew Matthew Judson rather well?” she remarked reflectively.
“Oh, sure.”
“What was he like, Horney?”
“Well—” the old man hesitated, at a loss for words. “Judson was queer, sort of cold and unfriendly except to those who knew him best, but he was a square-shooter.”
“The employes liked him?”
“Everyone did except a few chronic sore-heads.”
“Horney, was it true that thePresswas making money at the time it closed?”
“That’s what everyone on the paper thought. It was a shock to us all when Judson closed down. I’ll never forget the day he told us he was giving up the plant. The old man looked like death had struck him, and he cried when he said good-bye to the boys.”
“I wonder why he closed the plant?”
“Some say it was because he had lost a pile of money speculating on the stock market. But I never believed that. Judson wasn’t the gambling type.”
“Why do you think he gave up the paper, Horney?”
“I’ve done a lot of speculating on it,” the old man admitted. “This is just my own idea, but I figure Judson may have been blackmailed.”
“Blackmailed! By whom?”
“I can’t tell you—it’s only my guess.”
“You have no evidence to support such a theory, Horney?”
“Nothing you could call that. But the day before Judson quit he was in the pressroom. He was sort of thinking out loud, I guess. Anyhow he said to me, ‘Horney, the dirty blackmailer couldn’t do this to me if it weren’t for my daughter. If it didn’t mean smearing her name, I’d fight!’”
“Did you ask him what he meant?”
“I made some reply, and then he closed up like a clam. I figure he hadn’t realized what he was saying.”
“You haven’t any idea as to whom he meant?”
“I couldn’t make a guess.”
“No matter what the reason, it was a pity thePresshad to close,” declared Penny. “I feel very sorry for Mr. Judson.”
Bidding Horney good-bye, she hurried home for her automobile. However, as she drove toward the river cottage she kept thinking about what the old pressman had told her.
“It’s barely possible his theory is right,” she mused. “But why should Mr. Judson submit to blackmail even for his daughter’s sake? Somehow the pieces of the puzzle refuse to fit.”
Darkness was inking the sky as Penny drew up at the end of the road. Parking her car between scraggly box-elders, she walked swiftly along the river trail, soon approaching within view of the Parker cottage.
The fallen tree had been sawed into cord wood, the yard cleaned of sticks and debris, and only the damaged porch remained to remind one of the severe storm.
As Penny opened the screen door, Mrs. Weems came from the kitchen.
“Joe is asleep,” she warned in a whisper. “Perhaps we should talk outside.”
Penny nodded and followed the housekeeper to the porch swing.
“How is he doing?” she inquired.
“Oh, much better,” replied Mrs. Weems. “The doctor was here an hour ago. Joe is out of danger but must remain in bed for at least another day.”
“I was afraid when you telephoned that something had gone wrong here.”
“No,” confessed the housekeeper, “I was merely lonesome for news. Is everything going well at home?”
“Oh, yes, we’re getting along fine.”
“I hope you remembered to bring in the milk. And you didn’t neglect the dusting?”
Penny smiled ruefully.
“I might have known you would let everything go,” sighed Mrs. Weems. “No doubt it’s my duty to remain here, but I feel I should be at home.”
“Anchor Joe needs you, Mrs. Weems. Has he talked very much?”
“Not a great deal. He ate a hearty lunch and seems in no pain.”
“Did you see his back, Mrs. Weems?”
“Yes, the cut was an ugly one. The doctor changed the dressing while he was here.”
“I mean the tattoo,” said Penny impatiently. “Didn’t you notice it?”
“I saw that he had one, if that’s what you mean.”
“You didn’t question him about it?”
“Certainly not, Penny. Why should I?”
“Don’t you read theWeekly Times? Anchor Joe’s tattoo is a dead ringer for the one John Munn had on his back. Joe’s already admitted that he knows Munn. For all we know they may be bitter enemies. Perhaps it was Anchor Joe who pushed Munn off the bridge!”
“Penny, your ideas grow wilder each day,” protested Mrs. Weems. “I hope you don’t talk such nonsense to other people.”
“All the same, Anchor Joe bears someone a grudge,” insisted Penny. “He mentioned a person who had ‘ratted.’ Didn’t you learn a single fact about him, Mrs. Weems?”
“His last name is Landa and he came to Riverview three weeks ago. He has no family.”
“I think I’ll question him myself when he awakens.”
“No, I can’t allow that,” said Mrs. Weems sternly. “The doctor would never approve.”
“I promise not to excite him.”
“The answer is no! Now I wish you would help me by bringing in the washing. I must start supper.”
Penny obediently took the basket and unpinned sheets and pillow cases from the line. She had just finished when she observed a tall, well-built young man with military stride, approaching through the trees. He tipped his hat politely.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I am trying to find the Parker cottage.”
“Your search is at an end,” answered Penny. “You’ve come to the right place.”
“Do you have a man working here named Joe Landa?”
“Why, yes, we have.”
“Where may I find him, please?”
“Joe is confined to his bed,” explained Penny. “Unless it is very important I am afraid we can’t allow you to talk with him today.”
“It is important,” said the stranger. “I am Clark Moyer, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Penny’s eyes opened wide. “A G-man?” she demanded.
“I am an investigator for the government,” he replied, smiling.
“And you’re after Anchor Joe?”
“I am here to question him.”
“What has he done, Mr. Moyer?”
“I am not permitted to discuss a case to which I have been assigned,” he returned, amused by her display of interest. “It’s quite possible that Landa is not the man I seek. How long has he worked here?”
“Only a few days. He—he hasn’t killed anyone, has he?”
“No,” smiled the government man, “it’s not that serious. The man I am after is short and wiry, sandy hair and blue eyes. He has a tattooed anchor on his right arm.”
“And one on his back?” Penny asked eagerly.
“I wouldn’t know about that. Does my description fit the man who has been working here?”
“Yes, it does! Almost exactly.”
“Then I’d like to talk with him.”
“Come into the cottage,” invited Penny. “I’ll call Mrs. Weems.”
Summoned from the kitchen, the housekeeper listened to Mr. Moyer’s request that he be permitted to see the injured man.
“If you are a government investigator I suppose it will be all right,” she said reluctantly. “But the doctor’s orders were that he was to be kept absolutely quiet.”
“I’ll only ask a question or two,” promised Mr. Moyer.
“Is Joe wanted on a criminal charge?” the housekeeper asked.
“I was sent to check up on a man who calls himself Joe Landa. That’s all I can tell you.”
From the kitchen came the unmistakable odor of scorching potatoes. Mrs. Weems ran to jerk the pan from the stove.
“Penny, you see if Joe is awake yet,” she called over her shoulder.
“I’ll go with you,” said Mr. Moyer quickly. “If I have made a mistake it may not be necessary to disturb the man.”
“This way,” directed Penny.
She led the government man down the hall to the rear bedroom. The door was closed. She twisted the knob and pushed, at first easily, and then with increasing force.
“It seems to be stuck,” she said. “The recent rains must have caused the wood to swell.”
“Let me try,” offered Mr. Moyer.
He took Penny’s place, and after testing the door, gave it a hard upward push. There was a loud crash as it suddenly swung open.
“Goodness! What was that?” exclaimed Penny.
“A barricade. Keep back.”
To Penny’s astonishment the government man drew his revolver before entering the room. Disregarding the order to remain behind, she followed him inside.
“I might have expected this!” he muttered.
Penny’s gaze swept the room. A chair lay overturned on the floor. The bed, still bearing the imprint of a man’s body, was empty.
“Why, where’s Joe?” murmured Penny. “His clothing is gone, too!”
Mr. Moyer strode to the open window.
“You think he left that way?” Penny questioned. “He must have heard us talking!”
The government man nodded as he stepped through the opening to the ground.
“He heard us all right. There’s no question now that he’s the man I am after! And I’ll get him, too!”
Briefly examining the ground beneath the window, Mr. Moyer turned and walked swiftly toward the river.
Penny lost no time in telling Mrs. Weems that Anchor Joe had disappeared.
“Well, of all things!” exclaimed the housekeeper as she saw the deserted bedroom. “He was here a half hour ago. I know because I came in while he was sleeping.”
“He must have heard Mr. Moyer inquiring about him,” declared Penny. “Obviously he ran away to avoid the interview.”
“Then that means he’s guilty.”
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Weems. What do you suppose he did to have a government man after him?”
“He may have been a gangster.”
“Anchor Joe?” asked Penny, smiling. “He hardly looked the type.”
“In any event, we’re fortunate to be rid of him.”
“I wish we could have questioned him,” Penny said gloomily. “Now I may never learn about that octopus tattoo.”
“You and your tattoo!” scoffed Mrs. Weems, beginning to strip linen from the bed. “Anchor Joe certainly deceived me. He seemed such a pleasant sort and I was sorry for him.”
“I still am,” said Penny. “The poor fellow is in no condition to be wandering around. I rather hope Mr. Moyer overtakes him soon. Then at least he’ll get the medical attention he requires.”
While Mrs. Weems straightened the bedroom, she wandered to the river’s edge. Only a few stars were pricking the sky, and it was impossible to see very far. There was no sign either of Mr. Moyer or the man he pursued.
Penny returned to the cottage to eat supper with Mrs. Weems.
“Now that Anchor Joe has gone, I may as well go home tonight,” declared the housekeeper. “I can’t leave, though, until I’ve cleaned the cottage and set it to rights.”
“How much longer will it take?”
“Oh, an hour or two.”
“While I am waiting I may walk over to Peter Fenestra’s place,” Penny remarked. “I shouldn’t mind seeing Tillie Fellows again.”
“You’ll be cautious in crossing the river?”
“Of course,” laughed Penny. “I won’t be gone long.”
She washed the dishes for Mrs. Weems and then set forth for the Fenestra farmhouse. Frogs croaked as she crossed the swaying bridge, and far upstream she heard the faint chug of a motorboat. Otherwise, the night was unusually still.
Emerging from among the trees, Penny saw a light glowing in the distance. Knowing that it came from the Fenestra house, she used it as a beacon to guide her.
Passing the barn, she climbed a fence and entered the yard. The house was dark save for a single light burning in the kitchen. She could see Tillie Fellows moving about.
Penny knocked on the side door. Through the window she observed Tillie freeze into a tense attitude of fear. To reassure the girl she called her name in a loud voice.
Immediately Tillie ran to open the door.
“Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed in relief. “I was frightened.”
To Penny’s surprise Tillie wore a silk dress. Pocketbook, hat and gloves lay upon the kitchen table.
“I am afraid I’ve come at an awkward time,” she apologized. “You were going somewhere?”
“I’m leaving here,” Tillie answered grimly. She closed the door behind Penny.
“You mean for good? You’ve found another job?”
Tillie shook her head. “I’ve been discharged. He didn’t give me a week’s advance wages either.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Penny sympathetically. “But you’ll find a better place. You said you didn’t like it here anyway.”
“I’ve hated it. Peter Fenestra is such a suspicious person. Why do you think he discharged me?”
“I can’t guess, but I should like to know.”
“He accused me of prying!”
“How unjust.”
“Well, in a way, I was trying to learn about things I shouldn’t,” Tillie admitted honestly. “It was that storm cave.”
“Did you get down into it?” Penny asked.
“No, but I tried. Old Peter was gone this afternoon and I decided to find out what he keeps hidden underground.”
“The padlock wasn’t locked?”
“Usually it is, but today he forgot. I got the door open. Just as I started down the steps he grabbed me by the shoulder. I was scared half to death.”
“You mean Fenestra had hidden himself in the cave?” Penny questioned in astonishment.
“Yes, it was a trick to catch me prying. He said so himself, Penny. He only pretended to go away, then lay in wait.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No, he just told me to get out and never come back. It wouldn’t surprise me if he leaves here himself soon.”
“Why do you say that, Tillie?”
“Because he’s afraid of his own shadow. But I don’t blame him for being nervous. This house is being watched!”
As if fearing that unfriendly eyes were upon her at that very moment, Tillie went to the window and after peering into the yard, lowered the blind.
“Twice I’ve seen men hiding in the wheat field just back of this place,” she confided. “The first time there was only one, but yesterday I saw three.”
“Are you sure they were watching this house, Tillie?”
“Oh, yes, they were lying on the ground. For an hour they scarcely moved.”
“Didn’t you tell Fenestra?”
“I was afraid to do it, but I think he knew. All day he kept inside the house, and I saw him at the windows. He was as jumpy as a cat. Another thing—I saw him loading his revolver.”
“He must fear for his life.”
“I’m sure of it, Penny. Even if he’s only going to the barn he carries the revolver with him.”
A clock on the shelf above the stove struck eight times.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Tillie, “I must hurry or I’ll never get away before Old Peter returns. Excuse me while I run upstairs for my suitcase.”
“Where is Fenestra now?” Penny inquired before the girl could leave.
“In Riverview I suppose. He went away right after supper.”
“Run along and get your suitcase,” Penny advised. “I’ll drive you into town.”
“Oh, thanks,” the girl answered gratefully. “It won’t take me long.”
After Tillie had gone, Penny walked to the window and rolled up the blind. Across the yard she could see the disfiguring mound of earth and cement. What secret did the storm cave guard? Why was it always kept padlocked?
Abruptly she went to the foot of the stairs and called:
“Oh, Tillie, I’m going outside for a minute. I’ll come back.”
“All right,” agreed the girl. “Sorry to keep you waiting but I still have a few things to pick up.”
Leaving by the side door, Penny paused on the porch for a moment. Carefully she glanced about the yard and surrounding fields. A thin quarter moon rising over the pine trees gave dim shape to the barn and silo. She could see no one, yet Tillie’s revelation that strange men spied upon the house, made her attentive to danger.
Swiftly she crossed the lawn to the storm cave. As she had fully expected, the slanting door was padlocked.
“Oh, shoot!” she exclaimed impatiently. “I want to get down there!”
She jerked at the padlock several times, and then accepting the situation, turned toward the house. As she walked, Penny’s eyes fastened absently upon a clump of lilac bushes some twenty yards from the cave. They were moving gently as if stirred by a wind. Yet there was no wind.
Penny did not pause, but every sense became alert. Her heart pounded. Distinctly she could see a man crawling on hands and knees behind the lilacs.
Without disclosing by her actions that she had observed anything amiss, Penny walked steadily on toward the house. Her first thought had been that it was Peter Fenestra who spied upon her. However, as the figure straightened she knew she had been mistaken. The man was not Fenestra.
Before she could see his face, he moved to another clump of bushes, and then was enveloped by darkness.
Entering the house, Penny blew out the kerosene lamp and stood by the window, watching. She could not see the man. He had vanished completely.
“That proves that Tillie was correct,” she thought. “This houseisbeing watched. I wonder why.”
As she waited, Tillie came down the stairway, carrying her luggage. Observing that the kitchen was dark, she paused in alarm.
“It’s all right,” Penny called reassuringly. “I blew the light out so that I wouldn’t be seen from outside.”