Mr. Nichols glanced quickly at his daughter.
"You're not very anxious to go to Knob Hill, are you, Penny?" he asked.
"Why—what makes you think that?" Penny stammered. The question had caught her off guard.
"I pride myself that I've learned a few simple things during my twenty years as a detective. Faces aren't hard to read—especially yours."
"Dear me," said Penny, "I didn't suppose I was an open book. Just what does my face tell you?"
"That you're bored at the thought of going to a dull place such as Knob Hill. It's selfish of me to drag you along——"
"No, it isn't, Dad!" Penny broke in. "You've needed this rest for years and I'd not think of letting you go off by yourself. Why, for all your wonderful detective ability, you can never find your own slippers!"
"That's so," Mr. Nichols chuckled. "Well, I hope the two weeks won't turn out to be too monotonous for you."
Penny left her father to finish cleaning the car and ran into the house. Mrs. Gallup, the kindly housekeeper who had looked after the girl since the death of her mother, was preparing luncheon in the kitchen.
"I've laid out all your things on the bed," she told Penny. "And your suitcase is down from the attic."