"Can't stand the sight of blood," he explained to no one in particular. The center of this excitement suddenly dissipated itself with the stately, if hurried, departure of Mrs. Housing and her obedient husband, but the fever of hysteria had already spread to the remaining guests and was raging unabated. The orchestra, caught in the spirit of the occasion, struck up a raucous rendition of "The Beer Barrel Polka." Several guests, similarly inspired, rapped their partners rather ungently over the head with whatever bottles were at hand. The door to the manager's office opened briefly and slammed to. Finally, Marc managed to fight his way through to Toffee. "Now, see what you've done!" he yelled. "So this is night clubbing," squealed Toffee delightedly. "We have to get out of here," Marc guided her away from the dance floor. "Just when things were really getting started?" asked Toffee. "Where are Jack and Julie?" "They've gone and we'd better do the same." "Just a moment," replied Toffee and disappeared into the crowd again. Marc made a grab for her but missed. Presently she returned, beaming triumphantly. Under her arm, she carried a bottle of champagne. "I don't see why we should let it go to waste," she explained. Marc groaned and hurried her off toward the entrance. Outside, they were greeted not only by the cool, evening air, but also by what appeared to be the entire police force. The manager of the Spar Club stood behind them. "There they are, boys!" he yelled excitedly. "Grab 'em!" * * * * * Toffee was delighted to find herself, once more, the center of attention. She looked up at the judge with a disarming smile. She felt a little sorry for the poor little man--he seemed so perplexed by everything. Marc stood beside her, wondering vaguely if he weren't dead, and if not, why not. The judge fixed Toffee with a baleful stare. "Who did you say your parents were?" His voice was that of a martyr. "A moonlit night and a yearning spirit," said Toffee blandly. The judge's eyes rolled ceilingward. "Oh, good Lord," he sighed in pure supplication. "What she means--," began Marc. "You stay out of this!" snapped the judge. "I'll hear from you later." "But judge," said Toffee. "I don't know how I can make it clearer." "Never mind," replied the judge hotly. "Let's hear no more about it. I sincerely wish I hadn't brought it up in the first place. Now, perhaps, you'll tell me what went on in the Spar Club this evening, and never mind the poetry." "Well," said Toffee brightly, "it all started when this old fright tried to steal Mr. Snell from me--right there on the dance floor, too." An earnest expression crept over her face. "She should be locked up, judge."