"Exactly, mac," the cop said. "I'm used to you smooth operators." He reached in Marc's pocket and deftly removed a small packet of picture postcards. "And these look exactly like the kind of pictures you'd be sellin'." Marc gazed down dumbly at the postcards. "Those aren't mine!" he gasped. "He must have planted them on me." "Yeah," the cop drawled, "I've heard that one before, too." "Now, officer," Marc said reasonably, "can you honestly think for one minute...." "I honestly can, mac," the cop said heavily. "Now come along quietly." He took Marc's arm in an iron grasp. "Be my guest." * * * * * Marc surveyed the cold grey boundaries of his cell and burped furiously. "Tell it to the judge," the guard said and, extracting the key from the lock, ambled off down the passage. "I certainly shall!" Marc yelled after him. "This is the most flagrant abuse of authority...." He gave it up and looked around at the two-tiered bunk against the wall. He walked over to it and sat down gingerly on the edge of the lower section and rested his chin in his hand. Raking back an unruly shock of sandy hair he gazed down at the floor with bewildered helplessness. It was astonishing how swiftly life could become a rotten apple. Only a few minutes ago he had been a free and respected citizen on his way to a day of honest work; now he was a jail bird held on a charge of moral wrong-doing. The results could be disastrous, both to his business and his marriage. Julie would not regard the affair lightly; after all the pictures _had_ been found on his person, no matter how they happened to be there. Now, his desire to get to the country was twofold. His mind filled with gloom, his gaze wandered across the floor and to the opposite wall. It lingered for a moment at the lower area of the wall, then leaped upward to a drawing which evidently was the handiwork of a previous inmate. Whoever the artist had been, his eye for the feminine form was both exact and subtle. The girl of the drawing, though scantily clad, was, unlike the nude photographs, in no way distasteful. She reclined in space, one slender leg outstretched, a look of artful speculation in her eyes. Her hand was at her hair, having caught its silken strands between her tapering fingers. Marc's gaze held to the drawing with unaccountable fascination. It wasn't just the excellence of the sketch that held him, but something more. Staring fixedly at the girl on the wall, it came to him that perhaps she reminded him of someone he knew. Then suddenly it came to him in a flash. "Toffee!" he whispered. He withdrew his gaze hastily from the drawing, trying to force his thoughts into other, less dangerous channels. At the moment, Toffee was the last thing he wanted on his mind.