They watched with hypnotized eyes as the girl's slim body twisted and swayed from between the bright shower of curtains. It wasn't the girl that caught Puffy's gaze. Cupped in her slim hands was the biggest diamond he had ever seen. The gem was skillfully cut with the perfection of a Tiffany. From its multi-faceted sides a million sparks of rainbow fire quivered and danced through the room. The shadows seemed to come alive and burn under its presence. Puffy gasped loudly. "Shhhhh!" "It ain't true," Puffy said. "A paste if I ever stole one." Blake leaned on the low rail that bordered the dining room. His legs were spread wide, body balanced unsteadily with firm-gripped hands. George Lardner had picked a winner this time. Clothed in ankle-length silver cloth, she wafted across the floor lightly as a breeze. Sylvia Fanton was a light, floating angel of beauty. Her hair was raven-black drifting to her waist and the eyes, dark as her hair, seemed caught in worship for the precious stone in her hands. She hardly danced yet the smooth torso, the swaying hips held her admirers fixed. A sigh of longing escaped Drake's lips. "Wunnerful," he breathed. "Yea!" Puffy was still watching the great gem. "Not real though." "Perfect as a dream," Jim Drake went on, not hearing. "Perfect phony," Puffy insisted. Drake swung around unsteadily. "Who you calling phony," he lisped angrily. "That's girl's wunnerful." He staggered and collapsed against Puffy's barrel chest. "Home for you," Puffy decided. * * * * * He retrieved Drake like a sack of spuds and placed him carefully on his feet. "We're going out." He took a last look toward the dance floor and pushed his boss through the curtains toward the outer lobby. The music behind them stopped. The lights in the dining room blinked out and a woman screamed somewhere in the darkness. Adams didn't wait to find out what had happened. He pushed Drake along the hall toward the coat room. Beside the tall youngster, Adams assumed all the importance of a harbor tug heaving away at an ocean-going liner. Mary, the checkroom girl, was waiting. When midnight brought Drake from his whiskey, the girl had learned to expect a lavish tip. She looked at Puffy with a puzzled smile. "What's wrong in there?" "Revolution," he answered shortly. "Light went out. Lardner probably forgot to pay the light bill." Jim Drake fumbled uncertainly in his pocket and brought out a numbered ticket. "Coat please," he said stiffly. "Coat please!" He waved the ticket under Mary's nose. She took the stub quickly and returned in a minute with a woman's silver fox cape. It was a lavish, deeply rich fur. "How long since you started wearing these things?" she asked and pushed it across the counter. "Hey!" Puffy grunted. "That ain't ours." Drake clutched the fur protectively. "Here--here," he cried. "My coat. Just grew whiskers. My coat just the same."