Marc's thirty-two years seemed almost to have doubled as he climbed feebly out of the taxi and paid the driver. Turning, he gazed gratefully at the stairs leading to the Pillsworth Advertising Agency and started uncertainly toward them. Actually, though, for a man who had just suffered four consecutive escapes from lacerated death, he was in comparatively good shape. Nevertheless, having one's head wedged into the baggage rack of an interurban bus for over fifteen minutes is an experience that is bound to take its toll. Moving up the steps, Marc weaved and groped his way like a man in a drunken stupor. Finally reaching the door to the outer office, he threw his weight against it, wedged it open, and stumbled inside in a manner sharply reminiscent of the entrance of Dan McGrew into the Malamute Saloon. For a moment he just stood there, his arms dangling lifelessly at his sides, staring stupidly at his employees, who returned the compliment by remaining rigidly spellbound at their desks. Dazed as he was, Marc didn't see the girl coming down the aisle between the desks. And she didn't see him. A racing cloud of disheveled hair and apparel, she stormed toward Marc in what was obviously a blind rage. The tap of her high heels sounded against the floor with the rapidity of a riveting machine, and an enormous handbag flapped angrily against her slender thigh. It wasn't until she was nearly abreast of Marc that she finally noticed him. At the sight of Marc, the girl came to a sudden, jerking halt, as though she had run full-tilt against the face of a brick wall. More than that, she looked just as stunned. Going tensely rigid, like a cardboard cut-out of her self, she drew her arms stiffly to her sides, closed her eyes and screamed till it seemed that her vocal chords would snap under the strain. True and strong, her voice shrilled through the office ripping the silence to shreds. Finally completing this awful recital with a flourish right out of the Lucia mad scene, she opened her eyes and pointed a commanding finger at Marc. "Stay where you are, Mr. Pillsworth!" she bleated. "One step and I'll scream!" "You've already screamed," Marc reminded her thickly. "And you really mustn't do it any more." "If you move," the girl replied vehemently, "I'll not only do it some more, but louder!" Marc's blood ran cold at the thought. "Oh, don't," he pleaded, "Please. Whatever the trouble is, I'm sure we can...." Holding out a placating hand, he swayed toward her. "Get away!" the girl yelped with honest terror. "Get away, you ... you wolf!" And grasping her handbag firmly by its straps, she took hasty aim at Marc's head and arranged a resounding introduction of the two. Under the impact of the bag, which seemed to be harboring at least a couple of flat irons, Marc sat down heavily on the floor, like a sack of soggy meal. In the blurred starlit confusion that followed, he was vaguely aware of tapping heels and the thunderous slam of a door.