Marc forced himself to pick up the revolver. It looked like the one he'd seen on the beach. Obviously, whoever had hit him, hadn't meant to kill him. It would have been so much easier to have shot him. "Someone's trying to frame me," he said, as though trying to explain this fact to himself. "I don't blame them," was Toffee's prompt reply. "You're quite a picture in those yellow trunks. They set your sunburn off like a keg of dynamite." "But what am I going to do with that body?" Marc asked, ignoring the irrelevant criticism. "If it's found here, they'll lock me up forever." Toffee thoughtfully chewed a thumbnail. "You might try giving it to someone," she said pensively. "There must be just lots of people who are simply dying to have a body all their own. A person with an ingenuity at all could probably find all kinds of uses for it." "Stop driveling," Marc broke in curtly. "And try to think of something useful. I'll try to get it back in the closet, then I'll have to change clothes. We'll decide what to do about it afterwards." "You asked me," Toffee reminded him. "I don't suppose the woman really cares much what you do with her body. After all, she hasn't much use for it any more. And it wasn't really such a good one to begin with. I'm sure I wouldn't care what people did with mine." "You never did," Marc snapped, and summoning the courage born of necessity, he lifted the figure reluctantly to his shoulder. "You have no modesty. And please don't go on like that about bodies. It's indecent." "It's no more indecent than you in those trunks," Toffee retorted. Marc propped the body in the closet and quickly closed the door. "With legs like yours," Toffee went on, "I wouldn't even take a bath for consideration of the poor peeping Toms, much less go out on the beach where innocent women and children might see the things. They're horrible." Marc had ignored the insult as long as he could. "What's wrong with my legs?" he asked woundedly. "They're skinny," Toffee said, thoughtfully taking stock, "and hairy. They look like a couple of twisted pipe cleaners ... dirty pipe cleaners. They also turn the stomach and wither the soul." "That's enough!" Marc yelled reddening. "Hereafter, I'll thank you to leave my pipe clean ... my legs out of this. Just try to forget that I even have legs at all." "Gladly," was the obliging reply. "I'll just pretend to myself that you're staggering about on hooks." Blanching, Marc strove to restore his sense of dignity. He drew himself up to his full height, some six feet, two inches, and started regally up the stairs. With the gun still in his hand, he looked like a noble suicider. "I'll return," he said frigidly, "after I've put on some trousers." Then he stopped and regarded Toffee's transparent tunic with slow deliberation. "And while we're on the subject," he added quietly. "You might just try to do something about your own nakedness. It's revolting!" * * * * *