Mr. Nichols smiled at his young daughter and obligingly hung his hat back on the rack.
"My flight is off now that the fledgling has returned to the nest. What's on your mind now, Penny?"
"This little ornament, for one thing." Penny unwrapped the model of the Black Imp which Amy Coulter had given her and set it down on her father's desk. "Doesn't he look kind of lonesome and, well—mysterious?"
"He does at that," Mr. Nichols said as he picked up the little art piece and turned it over and over. "I should say the fellow has a wicked glint to his eye."
"Be careful how you handle him," Penny warned. "The clay is still damp."
Mr. Nichols placed the figure back on the desk. "It's a very clever design. I don't suppose this is that Black Imp you were telling me about?"
"It's a copy of the original."
"How did you get it?"
"I guess you might say I swiped it," Penny smiled, "or rather, Amy and I did together."
"You don't make yourself very clear."