Meanwhile, Marc and Toffee, taking the stairs two at a time, had reached the third floor where, in a dim cavern of soft lights and muted music, the Parisian styles were being displayed, as they should be, on lovely living models. Marc turned to Toffee and burped impatiently. "If you're determined to do this," he said, "be quick about it." He burped again. "The law is practically breathing down our necks!" "Why do you keep making that revolting noise?" Toffee asked interestedly. "It sounds like hogs rooting in the mire." Marc winced at her indelicacy. "I can't help it," he said. "When I'm upset it affects my stomach." "Then do something about it," Toffee commanded airily and drifted away. Marc started to protest that there was very little he could do about it as long as she kept him upset, when he remembered the bottle the druggist had given him and took it from his pocket. Removing the cap, he took a deep, hurried draft. This done, he screwed the cap back on and replaced the bottle in his pocket. * * * * * He completed this maneuver just in time, for no sooner did the syrup hit his gullet than he issued an explosive cough and staggered forward as though he had received a healthy blow from and to the rear. The liquid burned inside him like liquid fire. Gasping, he beat his chest for relief and steadied himself against the wall with a trembling hand. The dizziness that he had only just gotten rid of, returned. He closed his eyes in the hope that it would pass. His eyes were still closed when the scream issued piercingly from across the room. Opening them, he glanced across to where the models appeared and almost wished he hadn't bothered. It was too insane. Toffee had evidently found the dress she wanted, an ethereal affair consisting of a couple of scraps of filmy stuff arranged to make its wearer look like nothing so much as a gift-wrapped Diana out for the kill. As Parisian dresses went, Marc supposed that this flimsy confection was only a little bit worse than most, but it had one glaring flaw which almost anyone--anyone, that is, but Toffee--would have noticed at a glance; the dress was still on the model. Toffee, however, was not deterred, not even by the girl's desperate screams. She was industriously disrobing the poor creature before the startled eyes of the other customers. Marc, forgetting his dizziness, shoved himself away from the wall and ran forward. "Stop!" he yelled. "You can't do that!" Toffee cast him a fleeting glance over her shoulder, but did not stop her frantic efforts with the illusive dress and the struggling model. "It's difficult all right," she shot back, "but I think I can manage." "Madam, please!" the model shrieked, her air of aloof stateliness demolished. "Oh, _please_!"