the window of a candy shop.

"That looks like Amy Coulter!" Penny thought excitedly.

She hurried across the street to accost the girl. Upon hearing her name called Amy turned swiftly and her face lighted with pleasure.

"Why, how nice to meet you again, Miss Nichols."

For an instant Penny felt embarrassed. Amy looked so genuinely glad to see her that it was difficult to believe the girl could know of the accusation against her. It would be awkward to bring up the subject.

"I was hoping I might see you," Penny declared after a brief silence. "In fact, I called at your rooming house only a little while ago. The landlady told me you had moved."

"Yes, I didn't like the place very well. And it was too expensive for me."

"Where are you staying now?" Penny questioned, and then as the other girl hesitated for an answer, said quickly: "Don't tell me unless you wish."

"Of course I want you to know, Miss Nichols. I have a room on Fulton Avenue only a few blocks from here. If you have time I'd like to have you visit me. I am on my way home now."

"I'd like to accompany you," Penny said quickly. "There's something I want to talk to you about."

Amy Coulter looked surprised at such a response, but offered no comment. The girls devoted their conversation to casual subjects as they walked toward the rooming house.

Presently they paused before a drab looking building in a quiet street. Amy offered no apology as she led Penny up four flights of stairs to a tiny room on the top floor.

Penny noticed that Amy had arranged the cheap furniture to the best advantage. The gay home-made curtains at the window, bright pillows and an India cloth thrown over a battered old table, showed a nice appreciation of color values. The walls were attractive with fine paintings and etchings and in one corner of the room stood a box of statues and ceramics.

"You have some lovely things," Penny remarked admiringly.

"The paintings were done by my father. You may have heard his name—Eli Coulter."

"Why, he was famous as an artist and sculptor!" Penny exclaimed. "You are his daughter?"

"Yes, but few persons are aware of it. A name is forgotten so soon." Unknowingly, Amy sighed. "My father was quite noted at the time of his death. That was only four years ago. It seems a century."

"Your father's paintings will never be forgotten," Penny assured her earnestly. "They will always be treasured."

"I hope so. Father really sacrificed himself to his art. He died in poverty."

"You have had a difficult time since then?" Penny asked kindly.

"Yes, but I have no complaint. I shall manage to get along and I derive a real joy from my sculptoring."

"Your father taught you, I suppose?"

"All that I know I learned from him. But I can never equal his work."

"That remains to be seen," Penny smiled. "You are only starting your career."

"I haven't been able to sell any of my work. I am getting very discouraged. I had hoped to win the five thousand dollar Huddleson prize, but I failed."

"You should have won," Penny declared loyally. "Your entry was by far the best."

"The judge didn't think so."

"Who is Hanley Cron anyhow?" Penny scoffed. "Just a newspaper art critic! Do you consider him an authority?"

"No, I don't," Amy returned. "It was rather odd that he was named judge of such an important contest."

"You see, it doesn't mean a thing."

"The five thousand dollars would have meant something," Amy smiled ruefully. "I could use it to pay my rent and buy new clothes. To say nothing of taking lessons in art. I'm desperate for money."

"Can't I loan you a little?" Penny offered.

"Oh, no! I have enough to keep going for some time. I only meant that I could use that prize money very advantageously."

"By the way, have you read the morning papers?" Penny inquired abruptly.

"No, I was so busy getting moved that I haven't glanced at a paper for days. I suppose the critics made fun of my poor entry."

"Upon the contrary, the Black Imp was highly praised. However, I was referring to the theft of the painting."

"Theft?" Amy asked blankly. "What painting do you mean?"

"Then you haven't heard the news," Penny said, watching her closely.

"I haven't heard about any painting being stolen. Surely you don't mean from the Gage Galleries?"

"Yes, a Rembrandt was taken yesterday afternoon from the exhibition room. The police believe that one of the contestants for the Huddleson prize may have stolen it in spite—the theory sounds silly to me."

"But how was the picture smuggled from the museum?"

"The police aren't sure, but they think a girl carried it out as a package. She was seen by one of the guards entering a taxi cab."

Amy's face flamed with color. "Miss Nichols, are you trying to tell me that I am under suspicion?" she demanded.

Penny nodded. "Yes, that's why I wanted to talk with you. The police are looking for you now."

"The police! But I've done nothing wrong. I didn't take the painting! How can anyone accuse me of such a thing?"

"It's unjust of course. They suspect you because you left the Galleries only a few minutes before the theft of the painting was discovered."

"But that doesn't prove I took the picture! I had a right to leave."

"No one would have thought anything of it, Amy, but the guard reported he saw you board a taxi cab with a flat package under your arm. Probably he was mistaken."

"I did take a package from the museum," the girl acknowledged, "and it was a painting. However, it was my own—one which I had exhibited there for several months."

"You didn't show the package to the guard who is stationed by the door?"

"No, when I left the building he was not at his usual post. As I entered the taxi cab I heard someone call after me but I was upset and I didn't want to go back. So I just pretended I didn't hear."

"It's too bad you didn't return and show the picture," Penny commented slowly. "That would have cleared you of all suspicion. As it is, you're in an awkward position."

"Don't you think the police will believe my story?"

"If you can prove it—yes. I suppose someone at the Gage Galleries will have a record that the picture you took was your own."

Amy looked frightened. "I'm afraid not," she admitted. "You see, the painting was wrapped up for me to carry home weeks ago. I didn't want to bother with it so I kept it in my locker in the basement. Then yesterday I decided to take it with me."

"No one saw you go to your locker?"

"Not to my knowledge." Amy crossed the room and lifted out a small picture from her trunk. "See, this is the painting. A vase of flowers. It's very poor work—certainly about a million miles removed from a genuine Rembrandt."

In silence Penny studied the painting. She really was not thinking of it at all. However, she noticed absently that it was similar in size to the dimensions which the evening papers had given for the stolen Rembrandt.

"You don't think the police will try to send me to jail?" Amy questioned tensely. "The accusation is utterly silly!"

Penny did not know how to advise the girl. While she was inclined to believe Amy's story, she was afraid that others might not.

"Does anyone know of your present address?" she asked Amy.

"Only you. I haven't even had time to inform the postoffice of the change."

"Then why not remain in hiding for a few days until this trouble blows over?" Penny proposed after a moment's thought. "I shouldn't suggest it only I feel confident the real thief will be traced soon. Or at least new evidence will be uncovered."

"I shouldn't like to appear a sneak or a coward. If I were sure the police would believe me, I'd be glad to go to them and give myself up."

"That's just the point, Amy. You can't tell what they're likely to do. And the story is almost certain to come out in the papers."

"I shouldn't like