"You need money," George mused. "That's the key to the whole problem as I see it." "Sometimes," Marc said sarcastically, "you show signs of true genius." George made strange musing noises for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Where's Toffee?" * * * * * Marc started visibly. He hadn't thought of Toffee in a long time, and he didn't particularly want to think of her now. One supernatural creature at a time was more than enough. Especially at a time like this. Also, Marc was shudderingly mindful of Toffee's intimate relationship with pandemonium; the two of them romped about, hand in hand, like a pair of grade-school sweethearts. The most remarkable thing about Toffee, though, was that, in fact as well as fancy, she sprang from the very depths of Marc's own subconscious mind. Marc had long ago reconciled himself to the uneasy fact that his mind sheltered a precocious spirit who might, at almost any moment, be released into the world of actuality, and materialize right there before his astonished eyes. Then, too, there was Toffee's penchant for snatching the affairs of his life from his own grasp and instilling in them the breath of sheer madness. It was a difficult pill to swallow, and one that was rarely graced with a sugar coating. Even if she did manage to leave his life in a fair state of repair, her methods always put him through such a rigorous program of mental anguish that the end seemed hardly to justify the means at all. Marc tried to turn his thoughts away from her, for to think of her might easily start the chain of psychological reaction that always provoked her reappearance. He wished that George hadn't remembered the girl from his previous visit. "I don't know where she is," he said. "Let's just try to forget her, shall we? Things are confused enough already. In the meantime, I've got to get down to the bank." He frowned thoughtfully. "But what am I going to do with you?" "Oh, I'll come along!" George said eagerly. "There's no telling where I might stumble onto just the sort of thing I'm looking for. What's a bank?" "They keep money in a bank," Marc said absently. Finally he shrugged. "I guess I'll just have to put you on your honor, though I've a feeling it's rather like putting a man-eating tiger on a lettuce diet. You'll have to promise to stay here and keep out of sight. I'll lock the office door so no one will walk in and surprise you. Do you promise?" A perfunctory "uh-huh" echoed from George's direction. Then there was a brief scuffling sound and Marc's hat whirled crazily from the rack in the corner, flashed across the room and settled in a raffish angle on its owner's startled head. Invisible hands began to fuss at Marc's tie. "Don't!" Marc cried. "How often do I have to tell you I don't want to be helped? Why can't you be yourself? I think I liked you better when you were trying to do me in." "I want you to make a good impression," George explained.