Marc had always considered the Wynant a veritable bully of a place, and this opinion was generally shared by a multitude of others. On the one occasion when he had gone to the Wynant to attend what was unanimously conceded to be the most stultifying businessmen's luncheon in the annals of human commerce, he had vowed never to set foot in the place again. However, there always comes a time to break even the most solemn of vows. It was logic of a sort that caused Marc to bring Toffee to the Wynant; if there was any atmosphere chill enough to conquer the irrepressible redhead's wayward disposition, the Wynant had just such an atmosphere to offer in aces and spades. It was Marc's rather naive thought to banish Toffee to the more elevated regions of this spiritual salt mine and leave her there until, out of sheer, screaming boredom, she made up her mind to disappear to the place from whence she had come. Thus he would be free to make his peace with Julie and set his house in order in the several ways that it now required. Noting the doorman's glance of disapproval as they entered, Marc carefully jockeyed himself into a position in front of Toffee so that she might be hidden from view. The top coat, several cuts too long both in the sleeves and the skirt, did little to give the girl an air of refinement. As rapidly as he could, Marc led her across the broad foyer to the desk at the opposite side of the room. Toffee flapped obediently along behind him, but her gaze moved curiously toward the fountain and its unclad mistress. "Is that one of the guests taking a bath?" she asked innocently. "Certainly not," Marc said. "It's a statue. That fact is quite evident." Toffee's eyes narrowed suspiciously on the statue. "She looks awfully lifelike to me." "Don't worry," Marc said. "You won't have to take your bath in public." "I wasn't worried," Toffee said absently. * * * * * They proceeded to the desk and were instantly greeted by a clerk of a precise black-and-white perfection. Though the man was shorter than Marc he still seemed to look down on him from a great height. "Yes?" he asked with a slight reptilian hiss. Marc had prepared his story in advance. "I'd like a suite for my niece," he said. The clerk regarded Marc's "niece" and her costume and notched up the last small measure of slack in his eyebrows. "I'm Marc Pillsworth," Marc said hopefully, "of the Pillsworth Advertising Agency." The clerk regarded Marc with a cool steadiness that indicated all too plainly that anyone engaged in advertising, in the opinion of the Wynant, was nothing more than a not-so-high-class ballyhoo artist. Then he glanced down at the polished surface of the counter As though expecting to see three shells and a pea suddenly appear there. "And your niece's luggage?" he asked. "My niece was in an accident," Marc said quickly. "Her luggage was lost, burned. She's in town to replace the things that were destroyed."