Marc turned dazedly to Toffee, opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The tiny jail was suddenly all smoke, flame and blackness, more or less in that order, and its surprised inmates were suffering the eerie sensation of having the floor treacherously snatched from beneath their very feet. * * * * * Elevating his nose from its uncomfortable position astride a cold, iron bar, Marc glanced unbelieving at the devastation about him. The jail was a shattered shambles, and well ventilated in the extreme. Here and there, ghostly pockets of smoke were arising slowly through beams of moonlight. Somewhere behind him, there was the sound of an iron door being flung aside, and sitting up, he looked around. "Damn!" Toffee said with elegant profanity. "My dress is a mess." "The jail hasn't been improved much, either," Marc observed. "You hurt?" "Of course not!" Toffee said, obviously surprised that anyone should ever think of her as anything but indestructible. "I'm still intact." A dreadful moaning sounded from deep under a pile of debris, and Toffee turned, stepped over the door that was hanging undecidedly by a single bent hinge, and leaned forward in a listening attitude. "What is it?" Marc asked. "It sounds like a lost soul." "It is," Toffee said. "It's your drunken cell mate. He's giving voice." "I wish he wouldn't be so damned generous with it. He's fairly lavishing voice." "Must be down pretty deep," Toffee mused. "We can't leave him there." "Why not?" "I don't know for sure," Toffee replied uncertainly. "But I'm pretty certain it isn't just the thing to do." She started in the general direction of the noise. "Take heart!" she called. "We're coming!" "Don't bother!" the voice called back weakly. "It's not very nice down here. You wouldn't like it at all. Just pass down a bottle and go away." When the last armful of bars had finally been cast melodiously aside, and the little man freed, he regarded Marc levelly, without thanks. "You didn't have to hit me," he said reproachfully. "I didn't peek much." "We blew up!" Toffee explained proudly. She waved an arm significantly at a sizable hole in the wall. The fact that the ceiling was almost entirely gone seemed to escape her notice. "Let's go!" The drunk, an amiable soul, even if a lost one, accepted the explanation without question and smiled agreeably. "Okay," he said. "Let's take my car and go somewhere. There's some liquor left in it I think." He turned to Marc apologetically. "No offense, old man?" "None at all," Marc replied absently. The fellow extended his hand formally and said, "I'm Harold Jenks. Harold J. Jenks, the plumber." "Glad to meet you, Mr. Jenks," Marc said impatiently, anxious to be going. "My name is Dracula. This is my girl friend, Mad Agnes." "Please to meet _you_, Mr. Dracula," Harold said with careful politeness. "Heaven help me!" Marc exclaimed desperately. "Let's get out of here!"