George had done a good job of materializing ... except for one little detail. His trouser legs terminated in two gaping holes. One leg crossed jauntily over the other, he was nonexistent from the ankles down. The explanation for this oversight probably lay in the jug nestled next to the leg of his chair. In a chair that was almost back-to-back with George's, a little white-haired lady was nearly twisting her frail neck double in an effort to have a better view of George's footless legs. Passing a trembling hand over her eyes, she shuddered with horror and finally turned away. Across the table from her, her elderly male companion cast her a questioning glance, but she ignored it and stared determinedly out the window. Her thin, colorless lips were silently forming the words: "I won't. I won't. I _won't_ look again!" It was apparent at a glance that the entire clientele of Sunnygarden Lodge hovered dangerously close to the grave. Wheel chairs, crutches, and ear aids were much in evidence in the hushed funereal atmosphere of the dining room that was only occasionally interrupted by the inadvertent clatter of a slipping denture. In contrast, however, a lively, greying woman in a comic-opera gypsy costume moved from table to table, at the far end of the room, with hateful persistence, like a bee searching for honey in a cluster of toadstools. Toffee nudged Marc and pointed to the woman. "What's that?" she asked. "A fortune teller," Marc said absently. "They always have them in dumps like this. They're considered quaint by the older set. She generalizes about your future at a buck a throw." He started across the room, and Toffee followed. As they drew near the table in the corner, George suddenly glanced up for the first time and saw them. Blanching, he hurriedly handed Pete a piece of paper, then got quickly up from his chair and started away. By the time Marc and Toffee reached the table, he had passed behind a dusty potted palm and melted away like a cloud of smoke in a heavy gale. Marge started as she looked up and saw Marc standing beside her. "How did you get _there_?" she asked. Her hand, that had been stretched out toward a dark object lying opposite her, on the table, darted back guiltily. Marc glanced down and recognized his own wallet. "How did that get here?" he asked. "You left it just now," Marge said confusedly. "I thought I'd better look after it while you were away." Marc picked up the wallet and opened it. Two hundred dollars in bills were missing, but three hundred dollars and several checks remained. Obviously, George had lifted the wallet sometime during the night. But what could he possibly find to do with two hundred dollars in a place like Sunnygarden Lodge? Marc couldn't imagine. The matter would have to wait until George decided to reappear again. Helping Toffee into a chair, Marc seated himself in the place that had been George's. * * * * *