brake so hard that she was flung forward in the seat. From a side street, a long gray sedan unexpectedly had entered the main boulevard, the driver utterly disregarding the stop sign.

Penny swerved in time to avoid a crash, but the fenders of the two cars jarred together.

The girls sprang out to see how much damage had been done. The driver of the gray sedan likewise drew up to the curbing and alighted. He was a tall, thin man with a black moustache, immaculately dressed in gray tweeds. He wore a gardenia in the lapel of his well-tailored coat.

"See what you've done!" he accused angrily before either Penny or Susan could speak. "Just look at that."

He pointed to the rear fender which had been badly dented and bent. Penny cast an appraising glance at her own car and was relieved to note that save for a few minor scratches it had not been damaged.

"It's too bad," she acknowledged with a polite show of sympathy. "Didn't you see the boulevard stop?"

The man turned upon her wrathfully. "Of course I saw it. And I made the required stop too."

"Oh, no you didn't," Susan interposed heatedly. "You just barged right in without looking in either direction."

"What do you intend to do about my fender?" the man demanded testily of Penny, ignoring Susan entirely.

"Nothing. The fault was entirely yours. You're lucky the accident wasn't any worse."

"We'll see about this," the driver snapped. He made a great ado of copying down the license number of Penny's car.

"If you're determined to make a fuss, I should advise you to see my father—his name is Christopher Nichols."

"Nichols, the detective?"

Penny could not restrain a smile for it was easy to see that the name had startled the belligerent driver.

"Yes," she admitted.

With a scowl, the man returned paper and pencil to his pocket, not bothering to copy down the entire license number.

"Why didn't you tell me that before?" he muttered, climbing back into his car.

"You didn't ask me."

The man drove away, while Penny and Susan, after making a careful examination of the roadster, continued toward the Gage Galleries.

"I guess it was lucky I had slowed down before we met that fellow," Penny remarked. "Otherwise I couldn't have stopped in time to avert a crash."

"Do you think he'll try to cause trouble?"

"I doubt it. Legally he hasn't any grounds for complaint. He probably thought he could bluff me into paying for a new fender, but when he discovered I had a detective for a father he changed his mind."

Penny chuckled softly and drew up at the rear entrance of the Gage Galleries. The street was crowded with fine limousines, but after searching for a minute or two the girls found a parking place.

"We're late," Penny announced. "Let's go in the back way. It will save time."

They entered the rear door. Hurrying along the dark corridor, intent only upon finding the main exhibition room, they did not observe a uniformed attendant who was approaching from the opposite direction bearing a canvas covered painting. The girls ran into him.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," Penny apologized. "I didn't see you at all."

The man muttered something which the girls did not catch.

"Can you tell us the way to the exhibition room where the Huddleson prize ceramics are being displayed?" Susan requested.

The attendant did not answer. Instead he moved swiftly on down the corridor with his burden.

"Real sociable, isn't he?" Penny commented. "But come on, Sue, we'll find the place without his help."

They followed the corridor until it branched off in several directions. As they paused uncertainly, another attendant approached them to inquire if he might be of assistance. In response to their question, he directed them to a room on the upper floor.

The girls heard a hum of voices as they entered the exhibition hall. After all they were not late. Artists, sculptors, society women and art critics were moving about the room in stately groups, peering curiously at the various statues which were displayed along the walls. Penny and Susan felt slightly ill at ease in such company. Save for one other girl who appeared to be about their own age, they were the only young people present.

After showing their cards of admission, Penny and Susan joined the milling throng. They peered at first one statue and then another, but were not really enthusiastic until they came to a tiny figure which seemed to be attracting more than its share of attention.

It was an unusual piece; a small, dejected imp of clay who sat hunched over a woodland log. The work had rhythm and grace.

The girls studied the placard beneath the figure and Penny read aloud:

"The Black Imp by Amy Coulter."

"Sort of cute, isn't it?" Susan commented.

From the conversation which flowed about them they quickly gathered that the Black Imp was considered by artists and critics to be one of the most promising entries in the contest. They heard several distinguished appearing persons say that they expected the figure to win first prize.

"I am not so sure of that," another gentleman disagreed. "The work deserves to win—but judges have strange opinions sometimes."

"Especially a judge such as Hanley Cron," the other added dryly. As he spoke, he jerked his head in the direction of a tall, thin man who stood at the opposite side of the room.

Until that moment, Penny and Susan had not noticed him. It was the same driver who had caused them so much annoyance.

"Gracious!" Penny exclaimed in an undertone as she made the disconcerting discovery. "Do you suppose he is Hanley Cron, the contest judge?"

"That's what those two men just said," Susan returned. "Let's get away from here before he sees us."

She tugged at her chum's hand but Penny would not budge.

"Why should we run away, Sue? The accident was all his fault. Anyway, I'm curious to see the statue he'll select as the prize winner."

"I hope he knows more about art than he does of driving automobiles."

"Hanley Cron," Penny repeated thoughtfully to herself. "I've heard that name before. Let me think—oh, now I remember. He's an art critic for the Belton City Star."

"I don't believe a man with his disposition could have a speck of judgment," Susan said irritably.

A soft, musical laugh caused them both to turn quickly. Directly behind stood the same girl they had noticed upon first entering the exhibition hall. She was slender and dark and wore her shining black hair in a becoming coil at the back of her neck.

"I couldn't help hearing what you said about Mr. Cron," the girl declared, regarding them with twinkling eyes, "and I do hope you're wrong. How dreadful it would be if he should award the five thousand dollar prize to some inferior piece of work—such as this silly Black Imp, for instance."

"Why, we think it's the best figure here," Penny said in some surprise. "Don't you consider Amy Coulter a good sculptress?"

"Only moderately so. The girl works hard and is pathetically ambitious, but it takes more than that to win a prize."

"You seem to know Miss Coulter well," Penny remarked.

"Yes, indeed. I might call myself her best friend."

"Are you an artist?" Susan questioned. Before the other could respond, a nicely dressed woman paused for a moment to admire the Black Imp.

"You are to be congratulated, Miss Coulter," she said, addressing the girl. "Your work has power. It deserves to win the prize."

The woman moved on and Penny and Susan found themselves staring at their new acquaintance in amazement.

"Are you Amy Coulter?" Penny gasped.

The girl smilingly admitted that she was. "I wanted to learn what you really thought of my little figure," she declared.

Penny and Susan assured her again that they liked it better than any piece they had seen.

"You don't look a bit like I imagined a famous sculptress would," Susan said, slightly