Presently, moved by a better idea, he left the horn in the stable and went into the house, soon afterward appearing before his mother in the library. “Mamma,” he said, complainingly, “Della won't--” But Mrs. Schofield checked him. “Sh, Penrod; your father's reading the paper.” Penrod glanced at Mr. Schofield, who sat near the window, reading by the last light of the early sunset. “Well, I know it,” said Penrod, lowering his voice. “But I wish you'd tell Della to let me have the silver polish. She says she won't, and I want to--” “Be quiet, Penrod, you can't have the silver polish.” “But, mamma--” “Not another word. Can't you see you're interrupting your father. Go on, papa.” Mr. Schofield read aloud several despatches from abroad, and after each one of them Penrod began in a low but pleading tone: “Mamma, I want--” “SH, Penrod!” Mr. Schofield continued to read, and Penrod remained in the room, for he was determined to have the silver polish. “Here's something curious,” said Mr. Schofield, as his eye fell upon a paragraph among the “locals.” “What?” “Valuable relic missing,” Mr. Schofield read. “It was reported at police headquarters to-day that a 'valuable object had been stolen from the collection of antique musical instruments owned by E. Magsworth Bitts, 724 Central Avenue. The police insist that it must have been an inside job, but Mr. Magsworth Bitts inclines to think it was the work of a negro, as only one article was removed and nothing else found to be disturbed. The object stolen was an ancient hunting-horn dating from the eighteenth century and claimed to have belonged to Louis XV, King of France. It was valued at about twelve hundred and fifty dollars.” Mrs. Schofield opened her mouth wide. “Why, that IS curious!” she exclaimed. She jumped up. “Penrod!” But Penrod was no longer in the room. “What's the matter?” Mr. Schofield inquired. “Penrod!” said Mrs. Schofield breathlessly. “HE bought an old horn--like one in old hunting-pictures--yesterday! He bought it with some money Uncle Joe gave him! He bought it from Roddy Bitts!” “Where'd he go?” Together they rushed to the back porch. Penrod had removed the lid of the cistern; he was kneeling beside it, and the fact that the diameter of the opening into the cistern was one inch less than the diameter of the coil of Louis the Fifteenth's hunting-horn was all that had just saved Louis the Fifteenth's hunting-horn from joining the drowned trousers of Herman. Such was Penrod's instinct, and thus loyally he had followed it. ... He was dragged into the library, expecting anything whatever. The dreadful phrases of the newspaper item rang through his head like the gongs of delirium: “Police headquarters!” “Work of a negro!” “King of France!” “Valued at about twelve hundred and fifty dollars!” Eighty-five dollars had dismayed him; twelve hundred and fifty was unthinkable. Nightmares were coming to life before his eyes.