The gun faltered, then started to turn uncertainly toward Cecil. But not fast enough. Cecil suddenly reached out and slapped it free of George's invisible grasp. The gun described a small arc into the back seat and landed in Toffee's lap. Marc, Toffee, Cecil and presumably, though there was no way of proving it, also George, all reached for the gun at once. The result was a writhing snarl of reaching arms and clutching hands. Toffee giggled dementedly. "Stop that!" she screamed. "I'm ticklish!" "This is no time to indulge in mad laughter," Marc grunted sharply. "Our lives are at stake." "I know!" Toffee trilled light-heartedly. "I'm frightened sick! Only get your hands out of my ribs!" As three sets of madly working hands rose, twined together, the gun danced wildly from the fleeting grasp of one to that of the other. "Good grief!" Toffee said. "Even if I got hold of the thing I'd never know it; I can't tell which hands are mine!" The hands and the gun traveled higher in the air, then suddenly one of the hands rose above the others and reached viciously for the errant fire-arm. It struck it, without catching hold of it, and sent it crashing to the back of Gerald's unsuspecting head. Gerald instantly let go of the wheel and slumped down in his seat. The car swerved dangerously to the wrong side of the street. Momentarily the warring factions in the back seat, now concerned with more immediate matter of navigation, disengaged their hands and forgot the gun as it fell to the floor at Toffee's feet. "George!" Toffee screamed. "Grab the wheel!" Apparently the ghost followed the suggestion for the car suddenly veered sharply to the left and, with a screech of the tires, darted into a gas station. George's voice echoed worriedly out of thin air. "How do you stop this thing?" But there was no answer. Toffee, now certain that the car was at least temporarily under control, reached down for the gun. So did Cecil. So did Marc. The struggle in the back seat started afresh just as it had left off. * * * * * When the black sedan entered the station, Pat O'Brien, a young and stalwart Irishman with red hair, viewed its arrival from within the station house and strode forward with the simple thought of serving his public. As the car sped past the pumps and circled back, Pat assumed that the driver was merely bringing the vehicle in line with the pump of his choice. However, Pat thought it somewhat queer when it continued past the pumps the second time. As it turned back for the third time, and he noticed that there was no driver and that the back seat was the scene of a life and death struggle between two men and a girl, he began to have quite a definite feeling that things were not exactly as they ought to be. "Faith," Pat said to himself. "There's an uncommon thing goin' on here."