“There’s no green light,” he answered grimly. “Every window is dark.”
“But I saw it only an instant ago! And I did hear the clock strike thirteen. Cross my heart and hope to die—”
“Never mind the dramatics,” Mr. Parker cut in. “If the clock struck an extra time—which it didn’t—something could have gone wrong with the mechanism. Don’t try to build up a mystery out of your imagination.”
The car rattled over a bridge and passed a deserted farm house that formerly had belonged to a queer old man named Peter Fenestra. Penny’s gaze fastened momentarily upon an old fashioned storm cellar which marred the appearance of the front yard.
“I suppose I imagined all that too,” she said, waving her hand toward the disfiguring cement hump. “Old Peter never had any hidden gold, he never had a SECRET PACT with tattooed sailors, and he never tried to burn your newspaper plant!”
“I’ll admit you did a nice piece of detective work when you uncovered that story,” her father acknowledged. “Likewise, you brought the Star one of its best scoops by outwitting slippery Al Gepper and entangling him in his own Silken Ladder.”
“Don’t forget the Tale of the Witch Doll either,” Penny reminded him. “You laughed at me then, just as you’re doing now.”
“I’m not laughing,” denied the editor. “I merely say that no light was burning in the tower window, and I very much doubt that the clock struck more than twelve times.”
“Tomorrow I shall go to the tower and talk with the caretaker, Seth McGuire. I’ll prove to you that I was right!”
“If you do, I’ll treat to a dish of ice cream decorated with nuts.”