She said in a near-whisper, "But _this_--this is more wonderful than Belvoir itself!" "Prepare yourself for another shock, honey--a twentieth-century bathroom. We're going to get you cleaned up." It was like showing a child its first Christmas tree. It took Justin a full fifteen minutes to get Deborah safely ensconced in a hot tub. He emerged, perspiring, carrying her clothes, and deposited them on a chair, then began to strip off his own ill-fitting garments. He stopped in the process of disrobing, picked up the phone, dialed the Ritz and reserved a suite. He had no intention of having Marie walk in to find Deborah there with him. He found the spider again in his pocket, sat down on the bed to examine it once more. On impulse he squirted some of the remaining plastic on his hand, picked up a lighter, ran the flame beneath it. The stuff flamed up like benzine, blistering his palm before he could extinguish it. Justin shook his head and tossed it onto the table, feeling more sweat bead his forehead. This, he decided, was one invention he was definitely going to turn down--if he still had his job with the Ninth of Boston, come the morning. He got out of his absurd clothes, scratched his flanks with relief, rummaged in the wardrobe for an extra robe. Deborah called for help. She was having difficulty getting the plastic out of her hair. Justin stood her under the shower, soaped her head and turned on the warm water. "We'll get you a decent shampoo at a beautician's tomorrow, honey," he told her. It was at that moment that Marie appeared in the doorway. She looked at Justin, then at Deborah incredulously. She was carrying the blue-and-white dress of the girl from Old Boston in her hand. She said, "I was going to ask you what this was, Justin--but I see there's no need." Justin turned off the water, tossed the girl a towel, escorted his wife to the bedroom, shutting the bathroom door behind them. He glanced for the first time at the clock beside the telephone, discovered it was past two A.M. Ortine had had his little joke--instead of returning them to the banker's house at the moment of his first summons, he had allowed a few hours to elapse. "What are you smiling about?" Marie asked him sharply. "I was coming in to tell you I met a rather fascinating friend of yours--a Mrs. Forrester--tonight. She suggested I drop in to give you her regards before I turned in. And here I find you...." "Did she give you a Cuban cigarette?" Justin asked mildly. "Don't joke--your taste is sufficiently bad as it is." "Well," said Justin, feeling almost grateful to Ortine for forcing the issue into the open, "I suppose it had to happen sometime. We haven't been of much use to each other lately." "I wouldn't exactly say that," replied Marie, sitting down and tilting a cigarette for him to light. "After all, I wonder just how far you'd have got without me, Charles." "And that makes a marriage?" Justin asked sharply.