Toffee pointed to a door marked JANITOR'S CLOSET. "In there," she said. "Quick!" They ran to the door, threw it open and darted inside just as their pursuers surged into view at either end of the hallway. They paused in the darkness to listen. As the sounds of the chase continued outside they turned their attention to their new surroundings. The air was close with the heady aroma of cleaning fluid, wax polish and disinfectant. "Isn't there a light in here?" Toffee asked. "I can't find one," Marc said. "I've looked all over." "Well," Toffee said, "at least it's a place to relax for a bit and catch our breath. I just wish it didn't smell so oppressively clean. I was hoping for a bit of dirt tonight--of the right sort, of course." "You stay on your side of the closet," Marc said, "and I'll stay on mine." "We'll never get anywhere that way," Toffee said. "Suppose Romeo had taken that attitude with Juliet?" "They'd both have lived a lot longer," Marc said. "I suspect that George is in here with us," Toffee said. "I fancy I hear him breathing back there amongst the mops and brooms." "I suppose he is," Marc said. There was a pause, followed by a number of rattling sounds. "What are you doing?" "There's a whole shelf of bottles over there," Toffee said. "I'm just sniffing about to see if there's anything interesting. And there is. The janitor has strong tastes. Irish whiskey, I should judge, by the jolt of it. Have some?" * * * * * Marc paused, took note of the new vapors overriding those of the cleaning fluids. "Well," he said, "it is a little drafty in this nightgown." Toffee handed him the bottle in the darkness. "Bottoms," she said pleasantly. "The expression," Marc said sedately, "is bottoms up." "Up or down," Toffee said, "it doesn't matter. I was just tossing in bottoms at random. Assorted bottoms, so to speak. If you prefer them up, you'll get no argument out of me." There was a smacking sound as Marc lowered the bottle from his lips. "Let's just skip the bottoms," he said, "and go on to something else." "Sounds pretty giddy," Toffee mused, "all this leaping about over bottoms. However...." "Look outside," Marc suggested wearily, "and see if they're still out there." "Okay," Toffee said. A small shaft of light darted in and out of the closet as she opened the door and closed it again. "They're churning about like cattle in a loading chute," she reported. "Where are you?" "Sitting on the floor," Marc said. "I'm beginning to find this place restful." "You're beginning to stink of Irish whiskey," Toffee said. "Stop gulping at that bottle like a great fish and hand it back." "I wonder if we should offer George a drink?" Marc said with growing amiability. "I definitely heard him breathing back there just now. Sounds a trifle wheezy, I'm afraid."