Part 5

"I'm doing no good here," she thought in disgust. "I may as well go home."

Taking particular care to lock all doors and windows, Penny left the building. Street lights were blinking on as she climbed into the parked automobile.

Driving mechanically, she weaved through downtown traffic, now and then halting for a red light. As she was starting ahead from an intersection, an elderly man suddenly stepped from the curb. His gaze was upon the pavement, and he did not see the car.

Penny swerved the wheel and slammed on the foot brake. The edge of the fender brushed the man's overcoat. He gasped in astonishment and staggered backwards.

Penny brought the car to a standstill at the curb.

"You're not hurt?" she called anxiously.

"No--no," the man murmured in a bewildered way.

As he turned his face toward her, Penny recognized Matthew Judson, the former publisher of the _Morning Press_. Calling him by name, she invited him into the car.

"Let me take you home, or wherever you are going," she urged. "You don't look well, Mr. Judson. I am afraid I frightened you."

"It was my fault," admitted the old gentleman, staring at Penny. "I--I was thinking about something when I stepped from the curb."

"This is a dangerous intersection. Please, Mr. Judson, can't I take you home?"

"If you insist," he murmured, entering the car. "You seem to know my name, but I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"I'm Penny Parker. My father publishes the _Star_."

"Oh, yes." Mr. Judson's voice became spiritless.

"Your home is on Drexel Boulevard, I believe?" Penny inquired.

Matthew Judson nodded and in the same dull, lifeless voice supplied the address. He made no attempt at conversation.

As she stole occasional glimpses at the man, Penny thought that his face bore lines of mental fatigue and discouragement. He stared straight ahead with glazed, unseeing eyes.

Hoping to start a conversation, she presently remarked that she was the managing editor of the _Weekly Times_. For the first time Matthew Judson displayed interest.

"Oh, are you the girl who has taken over my building?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr. Veeley allows me the use of it rent free. I hope you don't mind?"

"Mind?" repeated Mr. Judson, laughing mirthlessly. "Why should I?"

"Well, I thought--that is--" Penny began to stammer.

"You thought that because I gave up my own paper I might not wish to see the building used by another?"

"Something like that," admitted Penny.

"I try not to think about the past," said Mr. Judson quietly. "Long ago I made my decision, and now must abide by it. I realize that I never can publish the _Press_ again. I'm broken, beaten!"

The old man spoke with such bitterness that Penny glanced quickly at him. There was an expression in his dark eyes which startled her.

"Surely one can't be defeated as long as he's willing to fight," she ventured. "Why, if you chose to make a come-back, I'm certain you would succeed."

Mr. Judson shook his head impatiently. "You don't understand. I am through--finished. All I can hope to do is to hold fast to what little I have, and try to protect Pauletta."

"Pauletta is your wife?" Penny inquired kindly.

"My daughter. If it weren't for her--" Mr. Judson hesitated, then finished in a voice quite casual: "If it weren't for her, I probably would end it all."

Penny was shocked.

"Why, Mr. Judson!" she protested. "You can't mean that!"

"Don't be alarmed," he said, smiling faintly. "I have no intention of taking the easy way out."

A dozen questions flashed through Penny's mind, but she was afraid to ask any of them. From Mr. Judson's remarks it was fairly evident that he never had relinquished the _Press_ voluntarily. Could financial difficulties alone account for his state of mental depression?

In the darkening twilight the car approached a white-painted brick house, set back some distance from the boulevard. Once an elegant dwelling, peeling paint had made it an unsightly residence. Roof shingles were curling, the front porch sagged, while an iron fence only partially hid a wide expanse of untended lawn.

"This is my home," said Mr. Judson. "Turn into the driveway if you wish."

Penny stopped the car just inside the iron gate.

As Mr. Judson alighted, a girl who appeared to be in her early twenties, arose from a bench. A white collie at her side, she came toward the car. Midway across the lawn, she paused, staring. Then, she half turned as if to retreat.

"Pauletta," called Mr. Judson. "Will you come here, please?"

Reluctantly the girl approached the car, her gaze meeting Penny's almost defiantly. Pauletta was a beautiful girl with auburn hair and steel-blue eyes.

"Pauletta, this is Miss Parker," said her father.

"How do you do," responded the girl coldly.

The instant Penny heard the voice she knew where she previously had seen Mr. Judson's daughter--on the steamer _Goodtime_! Pauletta was the girl who had tossed a wig and clothing into the river.

"How do you do, Miss Judson," she responded. "Haven't we met before?"

Pauletta kept her face averted from her father. She met Penny's gaze with a bold stare.

"I think not," she said evenly. "No, Miss Parker, you are mistaken."

CHAPTER 12 _OLD HORNEY_

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 the _Goodtime_."

"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 former _Press_ employee?"

"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."

CHAPTER 13 _PAPER PROBLEMS_

The next afternoon Penny and Louise arrived at the _Weekly Times_ to 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 the _Weekly_ in 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 the _Star_ this 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 the _Weekly_, problems which previously had seemed unsurmountable suddenly had become easily solved.

Entering the _Star_ building, 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 old _Press_ building. 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 the _Star_ drivers 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 the _Weekly Times_."

"Okay," laughed the trucker.

He rolled the paper onto the truck, and Penny climbed into the cab beside him. At the _Times_ building 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 the _Weekly_ going 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 the _Times_."

"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 the _Press_ was 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 the _Press_ had 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."

CHAPTER 14 _AN EMPTY BEDROOM_