Behind the scenes, George was briskly brushing the dust of the law from his hands as he returned to the wings where Marc still slumbered. Just why the ghost had chosen this particular moment to expend a portion of his limited ectoplasm on materialization was never quite clear; perhaps it had somehow aided him in his labors with the prostrated minion of the law. At any rate he strode, a full figure of a man, as it were, from the shadows, just as Julie emerged from the stage, the picture of pent-up rage. It was unfortunate that the paths of these two beings were fated to cross at this particular moment. Julie regarded the replica of her husband as a frost might look on a blossoming violet just prior to administering the chilly sting of death. "You!" she seethed, unreason glowing in her eyes. "You were behind all that, Marc Pillsworth!" She gestured angrily toward the stage. "I feel it in my bones." "I don't doubt it," George said amiably, a bit bewildered. "That dress you have on is terribly thin, isn't it?" The barometer of Julie's control registered DANGER just before she struck George squarely on the chin. It was a blow that any professional might have been proud of. And it caused a curious sort of short-circuiting reaction in George. At the precise moment of contact, he vanished completely. Julie stepped back, aghast. According to her tastes, this sort of thing was happening all too consistently. Then her eyes darted to Marc's hitherto unnoticed form, still crumbled some yards distant. "Oh, my heavens!" she gasped. "I knocked him clear across the stage!" At first she started contritely forward, then suddenly she stopped. "Serves him right," she said self-righteously. "On stage!" a voice yelled, and Julie whirled about. A call boy was hurrying toward her. "Curtain going up on the second scene, Mrs. Pillsworth," he said. "You're supposed to be on." Julie squared her lovely shoulders, took a deep breath, and started regally stageward. A moment later her voice rang out with a certain deadly sincerity in a song called, "I Wouldn't Give a Dime For the Ten Best Men in Town." * * * * * Meanwhile, Toffee, finding herself suddenly rematerialized, gathered up the money bags and the fur coat from a piece of scenery which was now thankfully hidden from the eyes of the audience and started in search of Marc. The redhead was now entirely clothed in the filmy grey dress that had proved the making of her theatrical success. When she found Marc he was sitting up, shaking his head. He looked at her blankly for a moment, then leaped to his feet. "We've got to get out of here," he said. "George slugged the cop. Incidentally, where is that fiend?" The fiend obligingly appeared, lengthwise on the floor, looking singularly unfiendish. He was a trifle fuzzy about the extremities, perhaps, but he was all there. He sat up and stroked his chin gingerly. "Boy, that dame packs a wallop," he said unhappily.