Sheriff Miller looked grieved. His expression was the one of a man who had been tried beyond endurance. His eyes, as though seeking escape, darted to the darkened window, then back to the disordered couple standing before him. He tried vainly to resist a feeling that the atmosphere in the little office had gotten too heavy for the structure's thin walls. Somewhere, somehow, something would have to give way soon. And it seemed, to him, that his sanity stood a good chance of being the first to go ... if it hadn't already. "Now, let's have that again," he drawled, dragging his reluctant eyes back to Marc and Toffee. "We were kidnapped," Marc began. "... by the man who's ..." Toffee continued impatiently. The sheriff's hand moved for silence more swiftly than either of them had supposed it could. His eyes moved beseechingly toward the ceiling. His lips murmured a silent prayer ... or curse. "I know! I know!" he groaned. "By the man who's goin' to blow up the whole ding blasted world! You ain't said a word about nothin' else since my deputies come draggin' you in here. And if I have to listen to any more about it, I'm going to throw you two in jail and have the key melted down for a watch fob! It is the craziest thing I ever heard of in all my whole natural life." "_Natural_ life?" Toffee exclaimed acidly. "He calls life with a face like that natural! If that's nature, I'll take tabasco!" "What's the matter with my face?" the sheriff asked belligerently. "What isn't! Just look at that moth-eaten mustache!" "Stop that!" Marc put in crisply. "We haven't time to haggle over the sheriff's mustache! We've only got twenty-two hours left!" Injured at having been brought to account by his own prisoner, the sheriff turned vengeful eyes on Marc. "You're in here fer murder!" he snapped. "I've got to get to a telephone!" Marc pleaded desperately. "If you think you're goin' to make me think you're crazy so's you can plead insanity," the sheriff snorted, "you're ... you're ... crazy!" "Make up your mind, Sheriff," Toffee said demurely. "Why did you kill 'er?" the sheriff thundered suddenly, leering at Marc. "I didn't." "Her body was in your closet!" "So was yours," Toffee giggled. The sheriff shuddered and passed a moist hand over an equally moist face, leaving both face and mustache matchingly droopy. He gazed smoldering at Toffee for a moment, then turned his attention resolutely to Marc. "If you didn't kill 'er, who did?" "Dr. Herrigg." "... the man who's going to blow up the world," Toffee elaborated innocently. The sheriff's huge hand came down thunderingly on the desk. "That rips 'er!" he screamed. "That cops the cast iron feather duster!" He turned excitedly to one side. "George! George!" A small, musty rustic emerged from the shadows and shuffled to the sheriff's side. "Yep, Mort?" he queried sadly. "What's up?"