"I'm trying not to," another answered in a shocked whisper. "What is he trying to do to her?" "I shudder to think. But look where he's got hold of her!" "I can't," another moaned, closing her eyes tight. "It's too awful! If anyone ever grabbed me like that...!" Her voice shuddered away into silence. "Police!" * * * * * So soon did the others pick up the cry, there was no way of telling which of the ladies had started it. Suddenly, the foyer shrieked from end to end and top to bottom with a call to all officialdom to come and defend the honor of the besieged statue. The ladies, milling frantically among themselves, were screaming themselves into a fair frenzy. At the fountain Toffee was lending her voice to the general confusion. The sight of Marc clinging to another woman, whether of stone or flesh, did not set well with the redhead. "You stop that!" she snapped, from the edge of the pool. "You let go of that marble huzzy before I come up there and knock her block off!" "Don't be silly!" Marc called back unhappily. "She's not real. Besides, I can't let go!" "I don't care about that," Toffee said. "What burns me up is what you're probably thinking up there." "Good grief!" Marc cried. "I'm not thinking anything!" "Oh, no?" Toffee sneered. "No man on earth could grab a woman the way you've grabbed that one and not be thinking something." "Stop blathering nonsense," Marc said furiously, "and do something. Help me get down from here." "You bet I will," Toffee said grimly. And with that she stepped lightly to the wall of the pool, peeled off her coat and stepped down into the water. "No!" Marc yelled. "No!" "Oh, my land!" one of the club ladies shrieked above the others. "Now there's a naked woman swimming around in the pool!" "It's probably that poor statue trying to get away!" one of her sisters replied. As Toffee swam toward the pedestal and the statue, the doors of the Wynant became crowded with shoving spectators who had been attracted by the din inside. The foyer began to fill rapidly. Behind the desk, a door opened and the manager of the Wynant ran to the desk clerk. He was a plum-cheeked, small man with dark hair and, at the moment, an extremely florid complexion. He grabbed the clerk by the shoulder and swung him around. "What's going on here?" he demanded. He glanced toward the statue. "Who is that man up there? What is he doing? And that woman?" The clerk trembled under his grasp. "I don't know," he said weakly. "I told them they couldn't stay here." "Do something!" the manager piped. "This isn't a fun house!" "Would you swear to it?" the clerk pleaded.