“Then kindly explain the significance of that ring you wear around your neck. I saw it only a moment ago.”
The stranger became confused. “My ring—” he stammered. “Oh, that! An heirloom. I have had it for years.”
“Please tell us the truth,” pleaded Penny.
“I know nothing about this man you call Mr. Rhett,” he replied, avoiding her direct gaze. “Evidently you have someone locked up here. Suppose you explain the meaning.”
“Gladly,” replied Penny. “We do have someone imprisoned in the storage room ready to turn over to the police as soon as the storm lets up. It is Celeste.”
“Celeste!” The stranger’s amazed expression betrayed him. Although he added: “And who is she?” it was unconvincing.
“Mr. Rhett, why pretend?” Penny demanded. “We know who you are.”
“Very well,” said the man, smiling faintly. “So I am Mr. Rhett! I assume you two are reporters for the Star.”
“Right,” agreed Jerry.
“And you want a story. Well, there’s no story. Since you have me dead to rights as they say, I’ll not deny I am Hamilton Rhett. However, my identity is my own affair. I stepped out of my old life—the bank and my home—because I was tired of a very boring existence. I never was cut to the cloth of a banker. I dislike being shut up indoors even for an hour. Probably I shall return to South America.”