"So justice has finally prevailed," Toffee said with satisfaction. "One of them finally nailed the right guy. And high time, too, if you ask me." "And speaking of justice," Marc said evenly. "You have a little duty to perform, George." He removed the money bags from Toffee's arms and thrust them ungently into George's lap. "You're going to return those hellish things," he continued. "Slugging that cop was the last straw. I've had enough!" "But I was only trying to help," George said. Something snapped somewhere in the depths of Marc's forgiving soul. "You say that once more," he yelled, "and I'll belt you one myself!" Hugging the bags to him, George stood up. "But the bank's closed," he said hopefully. "I can't take them back tonight." "You'll take them back tonight, all right," Marc said with quiet intensity, "before the police find us with them. You were so smart about getting them out, now you can just dream up a way to get them back in." The bank building loomed darkly as the taxi eased up to the curb and discharged three silent figures onto the sidewalk. Silhouetted against the glow of a distant street lamp, the figures moved forward with obvious conspiratorial intent. The first, burdened with two ominous-looking lumps of darkness, tried to hang back, and was rudely shoved forward by the other two for his efforts. "Get those things back inside," Marc hissed, "and be snappy about it. There might be a night watchman around." George remained unenthusiastic. "Even if I manage to fade myself through the wall," he protested, "I'll never be able to take these sacks with me. You're asking for miracles." But as Marc advanced threateningly, he started forward. "All right," he mumbled, "I'll think of something." Marc and Toffee peered into the darkness after George as he proceeded toward the bank and finally reappeared, in silhouette again, against one of the bank's huge plate glass windows, which was dimly illuminated by a night light somewhere inside. George seemed to hover uncertainly before the window for a time, then he bent down and seemed to take an intense interest in a trash container standing nearby. Finally he straightened up, fumbling with the bags. "What's he doing?" Toffee asked. "He wouldn't have the nerve to pocket that money, would he?" "I don't know," Marc replied. "He seems more to be putting something into the sacks. Rocks or something." Then he stiffened as George's motives suddenly became hideously clear. "No!" he yelled. "Don't, you fool!" But it was too late. Already, George had swung the sacks over his head and hurled them at the window. Marc's cry rang out just as they completed their grisly mission. A horrible crashing sound was instantly followed by a loud clamor of bells, the bank's burglar alarm was heralding the awful news with a din that froze Marc and Toffee in their tracks. For one panicky moment their blood seemed to stand still in their veins. * * * * *