Penny Parker, leaning indolently against the edge of the kitchen table, watched Mrs. Weems stem strawberries into a bright green bowl.

“Tempting bait for Dad’s jaded appetite,” she remarked, helping herself to the largest berry in the dish. “If he can’t eat them, I can.”

“I do wish you’d leave those berries alone,” the housekeeper protested in an exasperated tone. “They haven’t been washed yet.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a few germs,” laughed Penny. “I just toss them off like a duck shedding water. Shall I take the breakfast tray up to Dad?”

“Yes, I wish you would, Penny,” sighed Mrs. Weems. “I’m right tired on my feet this morning. Hot weather always did wear me down.”

She washed the berries and then offered the tray of food to Penny who started with it toward the kitchen vestibule.
[2]

“Now where are you going, Penelope Parker?” Mrs. Weems demanded suspiciously.

“Oh, just to the automatic lift.” Penny’s blue eyes were round with innocence.

“Don’t you dare try to ride in that contraption again!” scolded the housekeeper. “It was never built to carry human freight.”

“I’m not exactly freight,” Penny said with an injured sniff. “It’s strong enough to carry me. I know because I tried it last week.”

“You walk up the stairs like a lady or I’ll take the tray myself,” Mrs. Weems threatened. “I declare, I don’t know when you’ll grow up.”

“Oh, all right,” grumbled Penny good-naturedly. “But I do maintain it’s a shameful waste of energy.”

Balancing the tray precariously on the palm of her hand she tripped lightly up the stairway and tapped on the door of her father’s bedroom.

“Come in,” he called in a muffled voice.

Anthony Parker, editor and owner of the Riverview Star sat propped up with pillows, reading a day-old edition of the newspaper.

“’Morning, Dad,” said Penny cheerfully. “How is our invalid today?”

“I’m no more an invalid than you are,” returned Mr. Parker testily. “If that old quack, Doctor Horn, doesn’t let me out of bed today—”
[3]

“You’ll simply explode, won’t you, Dad?” Penny finished mischievously. “Here, drink your coffee and you’ll feel less like a stick of dynamite.”

Mr. Parker tossed the newspaper aside and made a place on his knees for the breakfast tray.

“Did I hear an argument between you and Mrs. Weems?” he asked curiously.

“No argument, Dad. I just wanted to ride up in style on the lift. Mrs. Weems thought it wasn’t a civilized way to travel.”

“I should think not.” The corners of Mr. Parker’s mouth twitched slightly as he poured coffee from the silver pot. “That lift was built to carry breakfast trays, but not in combination with athletic young ladies.”

“What a bore, this business of growing up,” sighed Penny. “You can’t be natural at all.”

“You seem to manage rather well with all the restrictions,” her father remarked dryly.

Penny twisted her neck to gaze at her reflection in the dresser mirror beyond the footboard of the big mahogany bed.

“I won’t mind growing up if only I’m able to develop plenty of glamour,” she said speculatively. “Am I getting any better looking, Dad?”
[4]

“Not that I’ve noticed,” replied Mr. Parker gruffly, but his gaze lingered affectionately upon his daughter’s golden hair. She really was growing prettier each day and looked more like her mother who had died when Penny was a little girl. He had spoiled her, of course, for she was an only child, but he was proud because he had taught her to think straight. She was deeply loyal and affectionate and those who loved her overlooked her casual ways and flippant speech.

“What happened to the paper boy this morning?” Mr. Parker asked between bites of buttered toast.

“It isn’t time for him yet, Dad,” said Penny demurely. “You always expect him at least an hour early.”

“First edition’s been off the press a good half hour,” grumbled the newspaper owner. “When I get back to the Star office, I’ll see that deliveries are speeded up. Just wait until I talk with Roberts!”

“Haven’t you been doing a pretty strenuous job of running the paper right from your bed?” inquired Penny as she refilled her father’s cup. “Sometimes when you talk with that poor circulation manager I think the telephone wires will burn off.”

“So I’m a tyrant, am I?”

“Oh, everyone knows your bark is worse than your bite, Dad. But you’ve certainly not been at your best the last few days.”

Mr. Parker’s eyes roved about the luxuriously furnished bedroom. Tinted walls, chintz draperies, the rich, deep rug, were completely lost upon him. “This place is a prison,” he grumbled.
[5]

For nearly a week the household had been thrown completely out of its usual routine by the editor’s illness. Overwork combined with an attack of influenza had sent him to bed, there to remain until he should be released by a doctor’s order. With a telephone at his elbow, Mr. Parker had kept in close touch with the staff of the Riverview Star but he fretted at confinement.

“I can’t half look after things,” he complained. “And now Miss Hilderman, the society editor, is sick. I don’t know how we’ll get a good story on the Kippenberg wedding.”

Penny looked up quickly. “Miss Hilderman is ill?”

“Yes, DeWitt, the city editor, telephoned me a few minutes ago. She wasn’t able to show up for work this morning.”

“I really don’t see why he should bother you about that, Dad. Can’t Miss Hilderman’s assistant take over the duties?”

“The routine work, yes, but I don’t care to trust her with the Kippenberg story.”

“Is it something extra special, Dad?”

“Surely, you’ve heard of Mrs. Clayton Kippenberg?”

“The name is familiar but I can’t seem to recall—”

“Clayton Kippenberg made a mint of money in the chain drug business. No one ever knew exactly the extent of his fortune. He built an elaborate estate about a hundred and twenty-five miles from here, familiarly called The Castle because of its resemblance to an ancient feudal castle. The estate is cut off from the mainland on three sides and may be reached either by boat or by means of a picturesque drawbridge.”
[6]

“Sounds interesting,” commented Penny.

“I never saw the place myself. In fact, Kippenberg never allowed outsiders to visit the estate. Less than a year ago a rumor floated around that he had separated from his wife. There also was considerable talk that he had disappeared because of difficulties with the government over income tax evasion and wished to escape arrest. At any rate, he faded out of the picture while his wife remained in possession of The Castle.”

“And now she is marrying again?”

“No, it is Mrs. Kippenberg’s daughter, Sylvia, who is to be married. The bridegroom, Grant Atherwald, comes from a very old and distinguished family.”

“I don’t see why the story should be so difficult to cover.”

“Mrs. Kippenberg has ruled that no reporters or photographers will be allowed on the estate,” explained Mr. Parker.

“That does complicate the situation.”

“Yes, it may not be easy to persuade Mrs. Kippenberg to change her mind. I rather doubt that our assistant society editor has the ingenuity to handle the story.”

“Then why don’t you send one of the regular reporters? Jerry Livingston, for instance?”
[7]

“Jerry couldn’t tell a tulle wedding veil from one of crinoline. Nor could any other man on the staff.”

“I could get that story for you,” Penny said suddenly. “Why don’t you try me?”

Mr. Parker gazed at his daughter speculatively.

“Do you really think you could?”

“Of course.” Penny spoke with assurance. “Didn’t I bring in two perfectly good scoops for your old sheet?”

“You certainly did. Your Vanishing Houseboat yarn was one of the best stories we’ve published in a year of Sundays. And the town is still talking about Tale of the Witch Doll.”

“After what I went through to get those stories, a mere wedding would be child’s play.”

“Don’t be too confident,” warned Mr. Parker. “If Mrs. Kippenberg doesn’t alter her decision about reporters, the story may be impossible to get.”

“May I try?” Penny asked eagerly.

Mr. Parker frowned. “Well, I don’t know. I hate to send you so far, and then I have a feeling—”

“Yes, Dad?”

“I can’t put my thoughts into words. It’s just that my newspaper instinct tells me this story may develop into something big. Kippenberg’s disappearance never was fully explained and his wife refused to discuss the affair with reporters.”
[8]

“Kippenberg might be at the wedding,” said Penny, thinking aloud. “If he were a normal father he would wish to see his daughter married.”

“You follow my line of thought, Penny. When you’re at the estate—if you get in—keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Then you’ll let me cover the story?” Penny cried in delight.

“Yes, I’ll telephone the office now and arrange for a photographer to go with you.”

“Tell them to send Salt Sommers,” Penny suggested quickly. “He doesn’t act as know-it-all as some of the other lads.”

“I had Sommers in mind,” her father nodded as he reached for the telephone.

“And I have a lot more than Salt Sommers in my mind,” laughed Penny.

“Meaning?”

“Another big story, Dad! A scoop for the Star and this for you.”

Penny implanted a kiss on her father’s cheek and skipped joyously from the room.