“Oh, curfew never rings for me,” Penny laughed, side stepping a puddle of water. “I’m likely to be abroad at any hour.”
At the far end of the long room a light glowed behind a frosted glass door marked: “Anthony Parker—Editor.” There the girl paused, and seeing her father’s grotesque shadow, opened the door a tiny crack, to rumble in a deep voice:
“Hands up! I have you covered!”
Taken by surprise, Mr. Parker swung quickly around, his swivel chair squeaking a loud protest.
“Penny, I wish you wouldn’t do that!” he exclaimed. “You know it always makes me jump.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Penny grinned, slumping into a leather chair beside her father’s desk. “A girl has to have some amusement, you know.”
“Didn’t three hours at the moving picture theatre satisfy you?”
“Oh, the show was worse than awful. By the way, here’s something for you.”
Removing a sealed yellow envelope from her purse, Penny flipped it carelessly across the desk.
“I met a Western Union boy downstairs,” she explained. “He was looking for you. I paid for the message and saved him a trip upstairs. Two dollars and ten cents, if you don’t mind.”