“Perhaps he didn’t hear you,” said Penny, peering after the retreating boat.

“He heard me all right,” growled Salt as he scrambled back up the high bank.

Noticing a small boy in dirty overalls who sat at the water’s edge fishing, he called to him: “Say, sonny, who was that fellow, do you know?”

“Nope,” answered the boy, barely turning his head, “but his boat has been going up and down the river all morning. That’s why I can’t catch anything.”

The boat rounded a bend of the river and was lost to view. Only one other craft appeared on the water, a freshly painted white motor launch which could be seen coming from the far shore.

“That must be the guest boat now,” remarked Penny, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. “It seems to be our only hope.”

“Let’s try to get aboard and see what happens,” proposed the photographer.
[20]

They walked leisurely back toward the guard at the drawbridge, timing their arrival just as the launch swung up to the landing. With a cool assurance which Penny tried to duplicate, Salt stepped aboard, nodded indifferently to the wheelsman, and slumped down in one of the leather seats.

Penny waited uneasily for embarrassing questions which did not come. Gradually she relaxed as the boatman took no interest in them and the guard’s attention was fully occupied with other cars which had driven up to the drawbridge.

A few minutes later, two elderly women, both elegantly gowned, were helped aboard the boat by their chauffeur. One of the women stared disapprovingly at Salt through her lorgnette and then ignored him.

“We’ll get by all right,” Salt whispered confidently.

“Wait until Mrs. Kippenberg sees us,” warned Penny.

“Oh, we’ll keep out of her way until we have our story and plenty of pictures. Once we’re across the river it will be easy.”

“I hope you’re right,” muttered Penny.

While Salt’s task of taking pictures might prove relatively simple, she realized that her own work would be anything but easy. She could not hope to gather many facts without talking to a member of the family, and the instant she admitted her identity she likely would be ejected from the grounds.
[21]

“I boasted I’d bring in a front page story,” she thought ruefully. “I’ll be lucky if I get a column of routine stuff.”

The boat was moving slowly away from the landing when the guard at the drawbridge called in a loud voice: “Hold it, Joe!”

Penny and Salt stiffened in their chairs, fearing they were to be exposed. But they were both greatly relieved to see that a long, black limousine had drawn up at the end of the road. The launch had been stopped so that additional passengers might be accommodated.

Salt nudged Penny’s elbow.

“Grant Atherwald,” he contributed, jerking his head toward a tall, well-built young man who had stepped from the car. “I’ve seen his picture plenty of times.”

“The bridegroom?” Penny turned to stare.

“Sure. He’s one of the blue-bloods, but they say he’s a little short on ready cash.”

The young man, dressed immaculately in formal day attire, and accompanied by two other men, came aboard the launch. He bowed politely to the elderly women and his gaze fell questioningly upon Penny and Salt. But if he wondered why they were there, he did not voice his thought.
[22]

As the boat put out across the river Penny watched Grant Atherwald curiously. It seemed to her that he appeared nervous and preoccupied. He stared straight before him, clenching and unclenching his hands. His face was colorless and drawn.

“He’s nervous and worried,” thought Penny. “I guess all bridegrooms are like that.”

A sharp “click” sounded in her ear. Penny did not turn toward Salt, but she caught her breath, knowing what he had done. He had dared to take a picture of Grant Atherwald!

She waited, feeling certain that the sound must have been heard by everyone in the boat. A full minute elapsed and no one spoke. When Penny finally glanced at Salt he was gazing serenely out across the muddy water, his miniature camera shielded behind a felt hat which he held on his knees.

The boat docked. Salt and Penny allowed the others to go ashore first, and then followed a narrow walk which wound through a deep lane of evergreen trees.

“Salt,” Penny asked abruptly, “how did you get that picture of Atherwald?”

“Snapped it through a hole in the crown of my hat. It’s an old trick. I always wear this special hat when I’m sent out on a hard assignment.”

“I thought a cannon had gone off when the shutter clicked,” Penny laughed. “We were lucky you weren’t caught.”
[23]

Emerging from behind the trees, they obtained their first view of the Kippenberg house. Sturdily built of brick and stone, it stood upon a slight hill, its many turrets and towers commanding a view of the two rivers.

“Nice layout,” Salt commented, pausing to snap a second picture. “Wish someone would give me a castle for a playhouse.”

They crossed the moat and found themselves directly behind Grant Atherwald again. Before the bridegroom could enter the house a servant stepped forward and handed him a sealed envelope.

“I was told to give this to you as soon as you arrived, sir,” he said.

Grant Atherwald nodded, and taking the letter, quickly opened it. A troubled expression came over his face as he scanned the message. Without a word he thrust the paper into his pocket. Turning, he walked swiftly toward the garden.

“Salt, did you notice how queerly Atherwald looked—” Penny began, but the photographer interrupted her.

“Listen,” he said, “we haven’t a Chinaman’s chance of getting in the front door. That boy in the fancy knickers is giving everyone the once over. Let’s try a side entrance.”
[24]

Without attracting attention they walked quickly around the house and located a door where no servant had been posted. Entering, they passed through a marble-floored vestibule into a breakfast room crowded with serving tables. Salt nonchalantly helped himself to an olive from one of the large glass dishes and led Penny on toward the main hall where many of the guests had gathered to admire the wedding gifts.

“Now don’t swipe any of the silver,” Salt said jokingly. “I think that fellow over by the stairway is a private detective.”

“He seems to be looking at us with a suspicious gleam in his eyes,” Penny replied. “I hope we don’t get tossed out of here.”

“We’ll be all right if Mrs. Kippenberg doesn’t see us before the ceremony.”

“Do you suppose Mr. Kippenberg could be here, Salt?”

“Not likely. It’s my guess that fellow will never be seen again.”

“Dad doesn’t share your opinion.”

“I know,” Salt admitted. “We’ll keep watch for him, but it would just be a lucky break if it turns out he’s here.”

Mingling with the guests, they walked slowly about a long table where the wedding gifts were displayed. Penny gazed curiously at dishes of solid silver, crystal bowls, candlesticks, jade ornaments, tea sets and service plates encrusted with gold.

“Nothing trashy here,” muttered Salt.
[25]

“I’ve never seen such an elegant display,” Penny whispered in awe. “Do you suppose that picture is one of the gifts?”

She indicated an oil painting which stood on an easel not far from the table. So many guests had gathered about the picture that she could not see it distinctly. But at her elbow, a woman in rustling silk, said to a companion:

“My dear, a genuine Van Gogh! It must have cost a small fortune!”

When the couple had moved aside, Penny and Salt drew closer to the easel. One glance assured them that the painting had been executed by a master. However, it was the subject of the picture which gave Penny a distinct start.

“Will you look at that!” she whispered to Salt.

“What about it?” he asked carelessly.

“Don’t you notice anything significant?”

“Can’t say I do. It’s just a nice picture of a drawbridge.”

“That’s just the point, Salt!” Penny’s eyes danced with excitement. “A drawbridge!”

The photographer glanced again at the painting, this time with deeper interest.

“Say, it looks a lot like the bridge which was built over the river,” he observed. “You think this picture is a copy of it?”
[26]

Penny shook her head impatiently. “Salt, your knowledge of art is dreadful. This Van Gogh was painted ages ago and is priceless. Don’t you see, the drawbridge has to be a copy of the picture?”

“Your theory sounds reasonable,” Salt admitted. “I wonder who gave the painting to the bride? There’s no name attached.”

“Can’t you guess why?”

“I never was good at kid games.”

“Why, it’s clear as crystal,” Penny declared, keeping her voice low. “This estate with the drawbridge was built by Clayton Kippenberg. He must have been familiar with the Van Gogh painting, and had the real bridge modeled after the picture. For that matter, the painting may have been in his possession—”

“Then you think the picture was presented to Sylvia Kippenberg by her father?” Salt broke in quickly.

“Yes, I do. Only a person very close to the bride would have given such a gift.”

“H-m,” said Salt, squinting at the picture thoughtfully. “If you’re right it means that Clayton Kippenberg’s whereabouts must be known to his family. His disappearance may not be such a deep mystery to Mamma Kippenberg and daughter Sylvia.”

“Oh, Salt, wouldn’t it make a grand story if only we could learn what became of him?”

“Sure. Front page stuff.”
 

“We simply must get the story somehow! If Mrs. Kippenberg would just answer our questions about this drawbridge painting—”

“I’m afraid Mamma Kippenberg isn’t going to break down and tell all,” Salt said dryly. “But buckle on your steel armor, little girl, because here she comes now!”