"This isn't going to be like the last time," Marc said sternly. "If you start another riot, I'll break your neck with my own bare hands." * * * * * The inner sanctum of the Loma Club appeared to be more a murky den, designed especially for barbaric rituals, than a place for relaxation and entertainment. To confirm this impression, the orchestra platform, when in use, proved to be nothing more than an altar, upon which a tiny group of exhausted, down-and-out musicians offered up, in horrible, though bloodless, sacrifice, the popular tunes of the day. High priestess of these gory activities, and hiding under the title of "vocalist," was Ruby Marlow. At the moment, she was holding a battered microphone in a death grip, that may, or may not, have accounted for the nerve-wracking, strangled sounds that were issuing from it. To Marc and Toffee, sitting at a table in a dark corner, the amplification of Miss Marlow's horrible mouthings was simply incredible. "Lose a weekend?" Toffee said bitterly. "You'd fairly murder the poor thing in here. In fact, the whole atmosphere in this place is pretty murderous." She shoved her glass disdainfully away. "When I want embalming fluid, I'll go to a mortician. But come to think of it, maybe the waiter knows best, after all. One more of those, and I'll be dead as a flounder, anyway." "I wish I hadn't even tasted the first one," Marc said morosely. "I keep seeing things." "What sort of things?" Marc pointed to a vacant table about a yard from theirs. "I think it's haunted," he said. "I keep seeing a little man down there. It's awful." Toffee looked in the direction he indicated. "I don't see anything," she said reassuringly. "It's just an ordinary table with a table cloth on...." Suddenly she stopped speaking, and turned frighteningly pale. Slowly, a scrawny hand appeared at the edge of the cloth and lifted it. Then, as if that weren't enough, a wrinkled ferret-like face jutted from under it, peered out querulously for a moment, and quickly disappeared. This singular performance was followed by a series of quick clicking sounds that were totally inexplicable. "Lord love me!" cried Toffee. "I saw it too, and it was horrible! Is that all it does? Just peer out and click at you?" "Isn't that enough?" Marc answered dumbly. "It's happened three times now." "Maybe he's a bashful castinette player," Toffee suggested uncertainly. "I don't think so," Marc answered gravely. "I think it's the liquor. If I start to order again, stuff your napkin down my throat." They both had become so engrossed in the phenomenon of the adjoining table, that neither of them noticed the approaching Miss Marlow. That the murderess of innocent songs was full blown, was unmistakable even at the distance of the microphone, but close up, she looked like something that should be turned on side, and hung over a bar. "You Mr. Pillsworth?" she asked lazily. "One of the boys says you want to talk to me."