CHAPTER 11 MR. JUDSON’S DAUGHTER

Penny read the message three times. Obviously, it had been placed on her desk during the few minutes she had been absent. Yet she reasoned that it would be useless to search for the cowardly person who undoubtedly had slipped from the building.

“So I am warned to close shop!” she muttered angrily. “And the Weekly Times offends public taste!”

Penny crumpled the paper into a ball, hurling it toward the wire basket. Reconsidering her action, she recovered the note and, carefully smoothing the wrinkles, placed it in her purse.

“I’ll show this to Dad,” she told herself. “But no one else.”

When Penny’s anger had cooled she was left with a vague sensation of misgiving. Resolutely she reflected that it was not unusual for editors to receive threatening notes. Often her father had shown her such communications sent to the Star by cranks.

“It doesn’t mean a thing,” she assured herself. “Not a thing. I’ll keep on publishing the Weekly as long as I please.”

One fact contributed to Penny’s uneasiness. Often she worked late in the building, and a single light burning from an upper story window proclaimed to any street watcher that she was alone. In the future she must use far more caution.

Try as she would, Penny could not forget the warning. After the boys who comprised the advertising staff had gone home for dinner, she caught herself listening tensely to every unusual sound. At length she shut the desk and arose.

“I’m doing no good here,” she thought in disgust. “I may as well go home.”

Taking particular care to lock all doors and windows, Penny left the building. Street lights were blinking on as she climbed into the parked automobile.

Driving mechanically, she weaved through downtown traffic, now and then halting for a red light. As she was starting ahead from an intersection, an elderly man suddenly stepped from the curb. His gaze was upon the pavement, and he did not see the car.

Penny swerved the wheel and slammed on the foot brake. The edge of the fender brushed the man’s overcoat. He gasped in astonishment and staggered backwards.

Penny brought the car to a standstill at the curb.

“You’re not hurt?” she called anxiously.

“No—no,” the man murmured in a bewildered way.

As he turned his face toward her, Penny recognized Matthew Judson, the former publisher of the Morning Press. Calling him by name, she invited him into the car.

“Let me take you home, or wherever you are going,” she urged. “You don’t look well, Mr. Judson. I am afraid I frightened you.”

“It was my fault,” admitted the old gentleman, staring at Penny. “I—I was thinking about something when I stepped from the curb.”

“This is a dangerous intersection. Please, Mr. Judson, can’t I take you home?”

“If you insist,” he murmured, entering the car. “You seem to know my name, but I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“I’m Penny Parker. My father publishes the Star.”

“Oh, yes.” Mr. Judson’s voice became spiritless.

“Your home is on Drexel Boulevard, I believe?” Penny inquired.

Matthew Judson nodded and in the same dull, lifeless voice supplied the address. He made no attempt at conversation.

As she stole occasional glimpses at the man, Penny thought that his face bore lines of mental fatigue and discouragement. He stared straight ahead with glazed, unseeing eyes.

Hoping to start a conversation, she presently remarked that she was the managing editor of the Weekly Times. For the first time Matthew Judson displayed interest.

“Oh, are you the girl who has taken over my building?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Veeley allows me the use of it rent free. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Mind?” repeated Mr. Judson, laughing mirthlessly. “Why should I?”

“Well, I thought—that is—” Penny began to stammer.

“You thought that because I gave up my own paper I might not wish to see the building used by another?”

“Something like that,” admitted Penny.

“I try not to think about the past,” said Mr. Judson quietly. “Long ago I made my decision, and now must abide by it. I realize that I never can publish the Press again. I’m broken, beaten!”

The old man spoke with such bitterness that Penny glanced quickly at him. There was an expression in his dark eyes which startled her.

“Surely one can’t be defeated as long as he’s willing to fight,” she ventured. “Why, if you chose to make a come-back, I’m certain you would succeed.”

Mr. Judson shook his head impatiently. “You don’t understand. I am through—finished. All I can hope to do is to hold fast to what little I have, and try to protect Pauletta.”

“Pauletta is your wife?” Penny inquired kindly.

“My daughter. If it weren’t for her—” Mr. Judson hesitated, then finished in a voice quite casual: “If it weren’t for her, I probably would end it all.”

Penny was shocked.

“Why, Mr. Judson!” she protested. “You can’t mean that!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, smiling faintly. “I have no intention of taking the easy way out.”

A dozen questions flashed through Penny’s mind, but she was afraid to ask any of them. From Mr. Judson’s remarks it was fairly evident that he never had relinquished the Press voluntarily. Could financial difficulties alone account for his state of mental depression?

In the darkening twilight the car approached a white-painted brick house, set back some distance from the boulevard. Once an elegant dwelling, peeling paint had made it an unsightly residence. Roof shingles were curling, the front porch sagged, while an iron fence only partially hid a wide expanse of untended lawn.

“This is my home,” said Mr. Judson. “Turn into the driveway if you wish.”

Penny stopped the car just inside the iron gate.

As Mr. Judson alighted, a girl who appeared to be in her early twenties, arose from a bench. A white collie at her side, she came toward the car. Midway across the lawn, she paused, staring. Then, she half turned as if to retreat.

“Pauletta,” called Mr. Judson. “Will you come here, please?”

Reluctantly the girl approached the car, her gaze meeting Penny’s almost defiantly. Pauletta was a beautiful girl with auburn hair and steel-blue eyes.

“Pauletta, this is Miss Parker,” said her father.

“How do you do,” responded the girl coldly.

The instant Penny heard the voice she knew where she previously had seen Mr. Judson’s daughter—on the steamer Goodtime! Pauletta was the girl who had tossed a wig and clothing into the river.

“How do you do, Miss Judson,” she responded. “Haven’t we met before?”

Pauletta kept her face averted from her father. She met Penny’s gaze with a bold stare.

“I think not,” she said evenly. “No, Miss Parker, you are mistaken.”