Toffee turned to the boy and shrugged. "I don't know what he'd do without me," she said, her voice heavy with theatrical weariness. "I simply don't know!" Then she smiled as the boy leaned his chin back on the counter and sighed. * * * * * Marc paid the cab driver and turned to regard the apartment house questioningly. "I didn't expect anything quite so shabby," he said. "Are you sure this is the number you got from the girl at the telegraph company?" Toffee asked. "Positive," Marc replied. "Well, we can be sure of one thing, at least. Mayes wouldn't be living here. I'll bet he's never even seen this part of town." A small frown creased his forehead. "Maybe it's just another run around. Maybe Ruby sent the wires; she could have easily. I'd hate to run into her again." "If it is Ruby," Toffee replied heavily, "I'll rip that yellow hair of hers out by its black roots. Her and her Irish blood!" "Well, there's only one way to find out," Marc said wearily, starting forward. Then, he stopped, as Toffee tugged at his sleeve. "What if it turns out to be Manny?" she asked apprehensively. Marc winced. "We'll just have to face him, I guess. Anyway, it might not be. It could be the little fellow that tripped Manny." "Yes. I guess it could be," Toffee admitted. "Well, in that case, let's go." * * * * * Inside, the old apartment house held all the stale, musty smells of old cooking and all the other activities of daily, crowded living, and the gloom in its hallways was almost tangible. Slowly, Marc and Toffee, like a couple of conspirators, crept along the downstairs passage, pausing before each door to read its carelessly stenciled number. Presently, at the rear of the hall, where the gloom was the thickest, they stopped. "Well," Marc whispered uneasily, "this is number seven. This must be it." "Yep," Toffee echoed. "This must be it, all right." For a long moment, they just stood and stared at each other with apprehension. "Well," Toffee said finally, "don't just stand there,--knock, ring a bell,--do something!" "Don't rush me," Marc hissed irritably. "I'm looking for a name plate." "Well, don't look at me. I'm not wearing one. Try looking on the door." Marc, realizing the wisdom of her advice, turned his attention to the forbidding panel, and subjected it to a more thorough scrutiny than was absolutely necessary. All he needed was a magnifying glass to complete his impersonation of Sherlock Holmes on one of his more important cases. He was so close to the door, that when it suddenly opened, he nearly pitched into apartment number seven head first. "I heard you snooping around out here!" a metallic voice shrilled above him. Marc could hardly believe his ears.