The Justice suddenly seemed to remember that he was presiding over a
court rather than a ladies' tea. His features fixed themselves into an
expression of severity. "I'm not sure you should divulge confidences
of such a personal nature, young lady," he said, straightening up.
"However, I can see your complaint."
"Anyone can see her complaint," Toffee commented dryly. "I guess she
was just born that way."
"Silence!" the Justice snapped. "And besides, this sort of thing
doesn't really get us anywhere." He turned to the waitress. "You're
certain this is the man, are you? No doubt in your mind whatsoever?"
"None."
"She's lying!" Toffee cried. "How _can_ she be sure? They're just
alike."
"Sure," George put in. "How can she be when _I'm_ not so sure which of
us is which. Maybe I am really he, for all I know."
"Eh?" The Justice's eyebrows seemed about to leave his face. "How's
that?"
"I propose a test for the witness," George continued. "If you want a
positive identification from her, why don't you let the two of us go
out of the room for a moment, then return. If she can successfully pick
out this gentleman over here, then we'll have to accept her testimony."
A look of deep confusion passed over the Justice's face. He turned to
the waitress. "Is that a good idea?" he asked. "I'm so mixed up, I
can't tell."
"Sure," the girl said. "Let 'em go. I'll pick out the right mug the
minute they step through the door."
* * * * *
Nevertheless, something about the arrangement seemed to bother the
Justice as Marc and George quickly removed themselves from the room.
The minute the door closed after them, it struck him.
"Oh, my Lord!" he murmured. "Now we may never know which is which if
that new one decides to double cross me. We may not even be able to
tell which one was arrested outside the bank last night." He looked
worriedly at the waitress. "The court's integrity is resting on you, my
dear," he said.
"The court's integrity," Toffee put in, "is in one hell of a spot, in
that case."
The corridor door swung open and Marc and George smilingly reappeared.
Side by side, they presented themselves before the girl.
"Go ahead," the Justice urged. "Pick out the right man. Don't be
nervous."
"Sure, your Honor." The girl winked broadly at her sisters-in-arms
on the sidelines. "It's a cinch." She turned to the two men standing
before her. Her hand went promptly toward the one on the right, and she
looked back at the Justice. "That's the one, your...." Suddenly her
voice faltered and trailed away into silence. She turned back to the
men and her eyes darted crazily back and forth, from face to face.
"Oh, murder!" she murmured miserably. "They _are_ both alike! They
both even have that dirty-minded look in their eyes." For a moment she
gazed up at the Justice entreatingly, and slowly began to tremble under
his venomous glare. Then, all in a rush, she turned and fled to her
companions from the diner. Collapsing into their out-stretched arms,
she began to sob loudly.
Once more a bleak stillness gripped the courtroom. Everyone seemed to
hold his breath, as though afraid not to. The only moving things in the
room were the Justice's eyes, which appeared to have gone dangerously
out of control. Then, after a long moment, black robed shoulders were
lifted to accommodate a tremendous sigh. The gavel darted into the air
and came down against the stand with a blow that split it neatly in two.
"The case is dismissed!" the justice roared. "And this damned court is
adjourned!" And hurling the gavel to the floor, he lifted his robes
about his ample waist and stalked ceremoniously out of the room.
Through a stunned silence, Toffee rushed gleefully to Marc and George.
Reaching them, she stopped and gazed bewilderedly from one to the
other, rather duplicating the performance of the remorseful waitress.
Then she threw her arms around the one on the left.
"You can't fool me, Marc," she sighed happily.
Immediately, arms closed around Toffee's waist and drew her closer. She
drew back.
"Let me go, George!" she cried. "You're taking advantage of my mistake."
George released her. "How did you know?" he asked disappointedly.
"Don't be silly," Toffee laughed. "If Marc ever showed that much
cooperation, I'd drop dead ... of sheer joy. I'd...."
"Holy smoke!" George broke in unexpectedly. He was looking fixedly at
the clock on the opposite wall.
"What's wrong?" Marc asked.
"It's only five minutes to twelve," George replied uneasily. "My
thirty-six hours are all but over. The High Council will be recalling
me any minute now."
Meanwhile, the spectators had joined together in a general exodus. With
a definite feeling of having been cheated, they were moving toward the
doorway in a sullen, grumbling tangle. Some, however, were struggling
toward Marc and his companions. These were reporters.
"Oh, Judas!" Marc cried. "If you fade out right here, where they can
see you, we're cooked. Let's make a run for it!"
* * * * *
Together, the threesome made for the only available avenue of
escape ... the door to the Justice's chambers. Reaching it, they
slammed it after them and turned the lock. A second later the
reporters also reached it and began to pound against it. The fugitives
turned to inspect their surroundings. Apparently, the Justice had
already gone in search of greener, more soothing pastures, for the
walnut-paneled room was deserted. They exchanged congratulatory glances
and joined together in a sigh of relief.
Toffee turned to the throbbing door. "Go way!" she yelled. "We're
closed for alterations!"
George's eyes, though, were on the desk clock. Now, it was only three
minutes to twelve. "Tell me," the spirit said hopefully, turning to
Marc, "did I really help you out there in the courtroom?"
"You were sensational, old man," Marc said, feeling a sudden warmth for
the ghost. "Couldn't possibly have seen it through without you."
"You aren't just saying that to be nice, are you? The Council will have
ways of knowing your true feelings."
"I wouldn't lie to you, George."
George extended his hand, and grinned as Marc accepted it. "It's
been fine knowing you," he said. Then he turned away. "You know," he
continued foolishly, "I feel real sentimental."
Toffee crossed to the ghost and silently took his head in her hands.
"This time it's no mistake, George," she said softly. And pulling his
face level with her own, she kissed him well and soundly, full on the
mouth.
"What a time to be leaving," George said regretfully when it was over.
And even as he said it, he began to fade.
"Goodbye, George, old boy," Marc said. "We won't soon forget you."
"No," Toffee seconded. "Not in a million years."
George was grinning as his face dissolved into thin air. The word
"good-bye" whispered through the room, and for a moment seemed to
coil warmly around Marc and Toffee, engulfing them in a tide of
friendliness. Then it was gone.
"You know," Toffee said thoughtfully, "he really wasn't such a bad
sort. I hope he makes out well with that High Council of his. They
sounded awfully heavy-handed."
"If my feelings in the matter count for anything," Marc said, "he's a
cinch."
During this tender passage the drumming had continued, unnoticed, on
the door. But now that George had been seen off in proper style, the
insistent reporters resumed their former place of pressing immediacy on
the agenda.
"We've got to get out of here before they break that door in," Marc
said.
"There's a side door," Toffee observed. "The Justice must have gone out
that way."
"Good night!" Marc cried. "And the darned thing has been unlocked all
this time. The reporters might have walked in on us at any minute.
Well, let's get out before they do."
He walked to the door and reached for the knob, but he never quite
completed the motion. Suddenly, the door burst open in his face, and
its edge caught him squarely between the eyes. For a moment he rocked
crazily back and forth, then he closed his eyes and crumpled to the
floor.
The young reporter bounded into the room and stopped short. He could
have sworn he'd seen the redhead when he'd first thrown the door open,
but now she didn't seem to be there at all. He searched the room
systematically and finally decided the girl had only been a trick of
the imagination. Settling for second best, he turned his attention to
Marc.
He looked at the unconscious man and frowned. There was something
odd in the way the fellow's lips kept moving. Also, something odd in
his expression. He seemed to be holding a whispered conversation with
someone. The reporter dropped to his knees and lowered his ear to
Marc's murmuring lips.
"No, no," Marc was saying. "No, Toffee! Stop wrapping your arms around
my neck like that. What are you trying to do, throttle me? Can't we
say good-bye without all that?" Then he made a strange whooshing noise
as though a fist had been jabbed into the pit of his stomach. For a
moment his expression was angered, then it slowly relaxed. "Goodbye,"
he whispered. "Goodbye."
* * * * *
The reporter sat up, deeply perplexed. If he had been expecting to
overhear an inadvertent confession, he was sadly mistaken. He wasn't
quite sure just what he had heard. It didn't seem to make sense.
It might have made a great deal of sense, however, if the reporter had
only known of the valley of Marc's mind and the blue mists from which
Toffee had come, and to which she was returning. If the young man had
only known of these things, he might easily have written the most
startling story of the year. As it was, though, he only shook his head,
got to his feet, and went in search of water with which to revive Marc.
* * * * *
It was an apprehensive Marc that left the elevator and made his way
slowly toward apartment 17-B. Since the sudden departures of George
and Toffee a sobering reaction had set in and certain salient facts,
relative to his financial and domestic status, had made themselves
hatefully apparent. That George had managed to guide the courtroom
fiasco to a satisfactory conclusion hadn't really resolved any
problems other than those that he, George, had created himself.
Otherwise, everything was just as unsettled as before. Probably more,
by now. Marc sighed heavily and proceeded to the apartment door, where
his ring was quickly answered by the diminutive maid, Marie.
Marie's distress was ill concealed. "Madam is most wretched," she said.
"She awakened only a bit ago, and the papers seem to have upset her
terribly. I took some breakfast to her, but.... Perhaps if you went to
her now...."
Marc left Marie wringing her hands in the hallway. He knocked lightly
on Julie's door and when he received no answer, went on in.
Julie, looking very small and miserable against a cloud of pillows,
was lavishly salting a plate of scrambled eggs with a flood of tears.
She was so absorbed in this undertaking that she didn't notice Marc
until he sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. Immediately, she
threw her arms around his neck, buried her face against his lapel and
proceeded to soak it through.
"Oh, Marc!" she sobbed. "I feel like such a horrible mess. I could
die! I didn't know until I read the papers. Why didn't you tell me? I
thought we were rich!"
With his free hand, Marc reached out and plucked the paper from between
the pillows. The article was easy to find since it was still damp
around the edges. It was the review of "Love's Gone Winging."
"Marc Pillsworth," it said, "the big advertising man from whom
the Broadway wiseacres were unanimously predicting a swift and
unconditional trip into the unholy state of bankruptcy, last night
proved himself to be the same shrewd businessman who raised the
Pillsworth Advertising Agency from a pup several years ago. With
last night's opening of "Love's Gone Winging," a musical, starring
none other than Mrs. Pillsworth, herself, our hero has turned out to
be the sole owner of the season's most lush theatrical gold mine. He
laughs best, it appears, who has the inside info on Julie Pillsworth's
extraordinary talents.
"Mrs. Pillsworth, appearing courageously under her own name, has
proved herself a musical comedienne of no mean standing. It is true,
of course, that during her first scene she appeared nervous and
restrained, but that can be attributed to first night jitters, an
occupational malady that is easily forgivable on the occasion of an
opening night. The real story, however, was told after the first scene.
Mrs. Pillsworth, having apparently found her footing with the audience,
hit the footlights with a surging vengeance that reacted on the paying
customers like an electric shock. After that, she carried the show,
almost single-handed, to a raging finish that had the boys and girls
out front cheering the house down.
"A new dancer, a redhead unfortunately not listed on the program,
appeared briefly to set the stage afire with a routine that did not
dwell on inhibitions. The young lady's unusual exit was an effect
that...."
The paper fell from Marc's hand and sprawled out on the floor. He could
hardly believe his eyes. He gently lifted Julie's face away from his
sodden lapel.
"But that's wonderful!" he said excitedly. "You were a sensation!"
"I know," Julie said dejectedly, blinking back the tears. "That's just
the trouble."
"What!"
Julie nodded. "The only reason I was any good, though, was just because
I was so mad I didn't know what I was doing. I haven't an ounce of
talent, really. I couldn't possibly give another performance like that,
even if I had to."
"Oh," Marc murmured unhappily. "Then we're washed up after all."
"Oh, no!" Julie cried. "Linda Godfrey came backstage after the show and
I talked her into taking over. She knows the songs already and she's
stepping into my place tonight. The show will run forever with her in
it."