"My imagination is running riot tonight," she thought in disgust. "There's no one here."
She started toward the stairway, but paused, unable to rid herself of the conviction that all was not as it should be. Then her light chanced to focus for an instant upon an old trunk in one corner of the room. Beside it in a crumpled heap lay an old rug.
From her father Penny had learned to be an unusually keen observer. She was positive that upon her last visit to the storeroom, the carpet had covered the trunk, protecting it from dust.
Summoning her courage, she cautiously approached the trunk. She paused to listen again. Distinctly, she could hear the sound of soft breathing.
Suddenly she flung back the lid. A man cowered inside.
"Don't make a move," Penny warned coolly, blinding him with the light. Protected as she was by the darkness, he could not know that she had no weapon.
"Don't shoot!" he pleaded, stepping from the trunk with hands held above his head.
It was then that Penny observed that her prisoner was a mere boy. He did not appear to be more than a year or two older than herself.
"March down the stairs in front of me and don't try any tricks," she ordered, trying to keep her voice steady.
She had grown a little frightened at her own daring. It appeared reasonable to suppose that the youth she had captured was the same crook whom the police had warned her against and yet the boy seemed too young to be a hardened criminal.