through the barrier to where they were waiting for him. He dropped two bags and his brief case and threw an arm around each of the boys. Then he stood back a pace to look them over.

“Are you two as good as you look?” he demanded, grinning widely.

“We’re even better,” Sandy assured him, scooping up both the bags. “You look O.K. too.”

“You look great, Dad,” Ken said.

“I am. And glad to be home too.”

“This is our first Christmas together in three years.” Ken groped for the brief case, but his eyes never left his father’s face.

“We’ll make it a good one, son.”

Sandy began to lead the way to the parking lot. “If food will help,” he said, “I think you can count on Mom. Wait until you see the turkey she’s got!”

“With cranberry sauce?” Richard Holt asked.

Sandy nodded. “Also with dressing, sweet potatoes, plum pudding—”

“Stop!” Ken’s father commanded. “Let us waste no more time talking. On to Brentwood! That is,” he corrected himself, as he came to a halt beside the boys’ red convertible, “on to Brentwood after a quick stop at my apartment. I want to get rid of some of this luggage and change my clothes. I’ll sit in the back seat with the bags, if you don’t mind,” he went on, “so I can be sorting out the things I want to take with me. It’ll save time.”

Sandy started the motor and the car slid smoothly into the line of traffic heading for New York City. Forty-five minutes later he pulled to a stop before the building in which Ken’s father maintained his seldom-used apartment.

“Give me five minutes,” Richard Holt said.

“Shall I carry your bags up, Dad?” Ken asked.

“I’ve got them.” The correspondent swung one in each hand. “They’re considerably lighter than they were.” He nodded toward a heap of packages on the back seat. “Don’t go snooping in those things while I’m gone.”

“Word of honor,” Ken said, grinning.

Richard Holt was back at the car again in six minutes flat. “O.K., men,” he said, sliding into the front seat beside Ken. “Head for Brentwood—and don’t spare the horsepower.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Sandy let the car move forward. A moment later he was heading southward toward the Holland Tunnel and New Jersey across the Hudson River.

“Now,” Mr. Holt said, settling himself comfortably, “you can begin to tell me what Mom’s preparing for tonight. After all, the Christmas turkey is still two days away. She doesn’t expect me to fast until then, I hope.”

“Not quite,” Sandy assured him. “For tonight she’s got—”

Several hours later Richard Holt shoved his chair back from the Allen dinner table and sighed luxuriously. “Sandy didn’t exaggerate a bit,” he assured Mom Allen. “My only worry now is recovering my appetite in time for the turkey.”

Mom’s eyes twinkled at him. “One good way of working off a meal is to wash the dishes, Richard.”

“Now, Mom,” Pop protested. “Dick’s a guest.”

“I always think of him as a member of the family,” Mom said.

“Thank you, Mom,” Richard Holt said. “It’s an honor—even if it does make me eligible for dishwashing.”

Mom stood up. “Then that’s settled. I’ll just leave everything in your capable masculine hands, while I run down the street to visit with my sister for a while.”

Bert grinned. “That’s where Mom’s hoarding her presents,” he explained to Richard Holt. “She doesn’t trust us.”

“I have my reasons,” Mom assured him as she departed.

Sandy washed, Ken dried, and Bert stacked the dishes in their places in the cupboard. Pop and Ken’s father stood on the side lines to give what Pop called their “invaluable advice.” Within half an hour the job was done.

As Ken flipped his dish towel over the rack, he said, “Do you want some paper and ribbon and stuff for wrapping up those packages you brought, Dad? We’ve got plenty.”

“Fine,” his father said. “I was just thinking they didn’t look very festive in the old newspapers I’ve got wadded around them.”

Pop took his pipe out of his mouth. “You know, Dick, we Allens follow the custom of opening presents on Christmas Eve. Hope this isn’t opposed to your own tradition.”

“It suits me fine.” Mr. Holt smiled. “Means we can sleep later on Christmas morning—and work up more strength for the turkey.”

Ken brought out the cardboard box of wrappings he had found in a closet. “Want me to bring the packages down from your room, Dad?” he asked, with a great show of innocence.

“Not on your life,” his father told him. “You can just wait until tomorrow night to see what’s in them.” He started for the stairs himself.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Bert offered, when Richard Holt had returned with the packages.

“Don’t let him,” Sandy advised. “It’s a trick. He just wants to poke around.”

The foreign correspondent grinned. “I need help, all right. I’m no good at this.” He picked up the largest of the various bundles. “But this one is yours, Bert, so don’t touch it.”

“I’ll wrap that one,” Pop offered.

“Thanks.” Mr. Holt hefted two parcels of almost equal size, and finally handed one to Sandy. “That’s Pop’s—and don’t drop it.” He handed the other to Bert. “That’s Sandy’s—and that had better not be dropped either.”

Ken eyed the two packages still on the table. “Which is Mom’s? I’ll do hers.”

“Let that wait for last,” his father said. “I want a conference on it. In the meantime—” He took up the smaller of the two remaining parcels and set to work on it himself.

When they were all finished, Richard Holt began to tear the heavy newspaper wrapping from the final parcel. “Take a look at this, will you?” he asked. “If you don’t think Mom will like it, I’ll get her something else tomorrow. I don’t feel very satisfied with it myself.”

The last sheet of paper fell away to disclose a small iron box, about eight inches long, four inches wide, and four inches deep. The surface was heavily ornamented with scrollwork, and its considerable weight was evident from the way Ken’s father held it.

“I thought,” he said half-apologetically, “that she could line it with velvet or something and use it for a jewel box. But I don’t know much about such things. Maybe you can suggest something else she’d rather have.”

“She’ll love it,” Pop said decisively. “She loves old things—antiques. And this sure looks old.”

“I think it’s old enough,” Richard Holt said. “Several hundred years, I’d guess. It was probably made originally to be used as a sort of home safe-deposit box.” His finger pressed one of the curlicues on the front of the box and the lid sprang open.

“Hey!” Sandy exclaimed admiringly. “A secret catch!”

“May I try it?” Bert asked. “Beautiful workmanship,” he muttered, as his fingers explored the front. Finally he found the