There was only a slight disturbance around the cigarette urn at first, a faint billowing of the table cloth. Then, as though someone had secured a grip on the thing ... as George indeed had ... it suddenly lifted into the air. There was a period of shifting and balancing, then it lifted steadily upward until it was above the heads of the embroiled diners. "No!" Marc yelled at the top of his lungs. "George! Put it back!" Instantly all was silence in the dining room as the warring guests froze in various attitudes of combat and cast frightened eyes upward at the floating urn. The enchantress from France, her hand clutching at Toffee's hair, was somewhat more affected than the others. "I haf loose my reason!" she wailed. "I am departed from my wits in this land of barbarians!" Then, becoming considerably more heavy-lidded than before, she wilted quietly to the floor. Meanwhile the urn had continued upward, paused, sighted its course, and started viciously in Marc's direction. George's plan was hideously plain; he meant to dispatch his earthly part to the hereafter by means of bombardment. "Run, Marc!" Toffee screamed. "Run!" Marc, however, now laden with food, silver and lead weights, was all but incapable of flight. He started forward, but only ploddingly. Loaded to the teeth with ballast, his progress was not only extremely noisome, but greatly retarded. "I can't run!" he panted. * * * * * In the next moment the urn had arrived at a position almost directly above him. It shuttled nervously back and forth, evidently adjusting for a direct hit. Toffee dashed toward the table and the petrified Blemishes. She bent quickly over Cecil and snatched the revolver from his hand. "Bombs away!" George's voice sang out jubilantly from the region of the urn. "Fire one!" "Oh, Lord!" Marc moaned fervently. He struggled desperately to reach one of the tables so that he might take shelter under it. And then, just as the urn plunged downward, three shots thundered deafeningly through the room. Marc was suddenly caught in a rain of sand and shattered pottery. At the table, the Blemishes jumped to their feet and threw their hands above their heads. "We surrender!" they yelped in unison. Then Cecil turned around, saw Toffee, the gun in her hand. He reached out and took it from her. "You're not supposed to have that," he said woundedly. "What kind of prisoner are you, anyway?" "Sorry," Toffee said. "It was an emergency." Then she ran to Marc, followed by the Blemishes, and began to scrape some of the debris from his head and shoulders. No sooner had she arrived, however, than another crisis loomed on the horizon. The door of the dining room flew open and the manager of the Wynant, accompanied by two of the city's finest, ran inside. "Arrest them all!" the manager screamed shrilly. "Arrest everybody!"