Marc looked at her unbelievingly. "I just don't know how it happened," he said quietly. "Except for that hideous old crow out there in the main office, everything was perfectly tip-top this morning. Now, all of a sudden, my wife is suing me for divorce, my most important advertising copy is missing, and if I don't find it by morning, my business is just as good as ruined. Where did it all start?" He dropped dejectedly into the chair behind his desk and rested his chin in his hand. Once again the room became silent. "It was that blonde," he said absently, after a moment. "What blonde?" Toffee asked suspiciously, peering from the depths of her chair. "The blonde that screamed. She was a decoy. She double crossed me." "They'll do it every time," Toffee said firmly. "Now you take a redhead...." "Never mind that," Marc said pensively. "She started screaming long before she could possibly have seen the car from where she was standing. She drew my attention away deliberately, so I'd be sure to get hit. I'm sure of it. She probably took the brief case, too. Maybe she was hired for the job. Good grief! If that's true, I'm really in a spot!" "They'll do it every time, those blondes," Toffee repeated doggedly. "I'm sure my brief case was stolen," Marc said, almost to himself. "I've got to find that blonde. And in the meantime, just to be sure, I'd better have the boys knock out another campaign tonight." He turned to the telephone and started to dial feverishly. After fifteen minutes of assorted telephone conversations, Marc turned to Toffee dispiritedly. "It's no use," he announced. "Every last one of them has been called out of town for the weekend. I've never talked to so many simple minded wives and landladies in all my life. They haven't any idea where any of the men are. They would pick a time of crisis to start their weak-minded cavorting." "Who would want to keep you from having the Reece account?" Toffee asked. "The Mayes Agency," Marc answered promptly, and then shook his head. "But Mayes wouldn't do a thing like this. He's hard as nails when it comes to business, but he wouldn't do anything criminal, and I might have been killed by that car this morning. What am I going to do now?" * * * * * His question was promptly answered by the shrill ring of the telephone. He picked up the receiver disinterestedly, and before he could give his name, a sultry feminine voice sounded over the wire. "This Marc Pillsworth?" it asked. "Yes. Who's this?" "Don't you mind who this is, Buster," the voice said evenly. "Just you listen to what I got to say, and don't interrupt. If you want your brief case back, you be at the Southlawn Cemetery at eleven sharp tonight." "What!" Marc yelled. This was a great deal more than he'd expected.