“Well, I don’t know,” the man answered, avoiding her gaze. “I never liked crowds.”
Penny decided to risk a direct accusation. “You are Clem Davis,” she said, eyeing him steadily.
“That’s a laugh,” the man retorted, starting to edge away. “My name is Thomas Ryan.”
“Now please don’t run away again,” Penny pleaded, sensing his intention. “If you are Clem Davis, and I’m sure you are, I want to help you.”
“How could you help me?”
“By exposing the men who framed you. I never believed that you set fire to the Preston barn.”
“I never did.”
“Please tell me about it,” Penny urged, seating herself at one of the picnic benches.
“Who are you anyhow?” the man asked suspiciously. “Why are you so willing to help me, as you say?”
“I’m Penelope Parker, and my father publishes the Star.”