“But—”
“I am afraid I must ask you to leave now,” Lorinda said.
Deeply chagrined by her failure to obtain a picture, Penny followed the Rhett girl to the front door.
“I’m sorry,” Lorinda said, observing the proud tilt of Penny’s chin. “It’s nothing personal. I really like you very much and would like to help you—but I can’t.”
She opened the door and Penny went out. As the latch clicked behind her, Salt, a tall young man with an aggressive walk, came toward the porch.
“Hi, Penny!” he greeted her casually. “Sorry to be late, but I got tied up in a traffic jam at Fulton Bridge. Everything lined up for the pictures?”
Penny told him the bad news.
“Now see here, they can’t do that to us,” Salt said, knocking on the door of the old mansion. “I’ll catch the dickens from DeWitt if I go back to the office without a picture. How about the story?”
“Not much we can use. I talked to Mrs. Rhett and her daughter, but they didn’t give me any real information. Mr. Rhett’s disappearance seems to be as puzzling to them as anyone else.”
“You can hook your story onto that angle then. But me—I’ve got to come up with a picture.” Salt knocked again on the door. “Say, are they all deaf in there?”