He ran down the road. Pen followed at a sober pace--still a little dazed. CHAPTER XI PEN'S HAND IS FORCED It was a justly aggrieved father that Pen found awaiting her in the dining-room. "Half-past eight!" he said. "Where on earth have you been!" Pen was quiet and starry-eyed with happiness. It didn't matter much to her what she said. But she rather wished to avoid a scene. She juggled with the truth a little. "Mr. Delehanty wanted me to help him with the search." "Delehanty! ... Wanted you!" he said amazed. It was too much for him. "And Mr. Riever," Pen added as an afterthought. The magic name mollified him a little. "Hum! Ha! ... Well, if Riever knew ... What suddenly started you off on this tack?" "I want this business over with!" "I confess I fail to understand you!" he said severely ... "What help could you give them anyway?" "I know the place so well!" "Do you mean to say you have been searching the woods ... with all these strangers about?" "I had only to raise my voice to bring a dozen to my aid ... Besides, Mr. Riever lent me a revolver." "Oh! ... Well you might have taken your father into your confidence ... Did you find anything?" "No." A more perspicacious man might have remarked the little catch of joy with which she said it, but never Pendleton. "The supper is cold," he said fretfully. "Aunt Maria's gone home." "Never mind," said Pen. Out of the riches in her breast she could spare affection for him, the dear, trying child! She kissed his bald spot. "I'll make a cup of tea for myself." "I got the mail this afternoon," he grumbled. "There's a letter for you." "Eh?" said Pen sharply. "On your plate. I never saw the handwriting before." Pen glided swiftly around the table. "I never saw it either," she said. Which was perfectly true. A scrawling, half-formed hand. The post-mark "New York" told her all that she needed to know. She thrust it carelessly in her belt and went out into the kitchen. Pendleton looked affronted. He was terribly curious. Pen lit the oil stove and put the kettle on. Then she read her letter. "Dear Miss: I'm not much at writing. Please excuse mistakes. Well Miss Broome I guess you were right, all right. Everything bears out what you said. I and the fellows have made a good beginning, but we haven't cinched it yet by a good deal. Of course in a job like this you got to be absolutely bomb-proof before you put yourself under fire. I guess you get me. Just at present we're stalled for the lack of coin. I've raised every nickel I could amongst the fellows and it's all gone flooey. And not a job stirring. We got to have five hundred quick. A thousand would be better. Bring it up yourself. We got to have somebody to stop at a certain swell joint. None of us was able to get by with it. For God's sake get the money, if you have to purloin your old man's sock. Everything depends on your turning up with it the next day or so. No need for me to sign this."