"Oh, Marc!" she cried. "Can you ever forgive me? I might have known you weren't out with that woman. The minute I got outside your office, last night, I knew I'd made a fool of myself, but I had to be sure. That's why I hired the detective. And when I thought you'd gone out with that redhead...." A flame of anger flickered briefly in her eyes. "And to think I let that little rat take me in with his phoney reports!" Again, she turned pleadingly to Marc. "Please say you'll forgive me?" Marc stared at her, aghast, for a moment, wondering if he'd finally lost his mind, then his gaze darted to the scattered pile of photographs. Quickly he crossed over and picked them up, looked at them, and then, dropped them disdainfully to the floor. "I'll think it over," he said severely, turning to Julie. "I don't know if I'll forgive you or not. You behaved very badly, I think. I'm going to my room to think about it, and I'll let you know my decision in exactly half an hour." With that, he turned and strode majestically out of the room. Reaching the hallway, out of Julie's sight, he suddenly stopped and the grin that broke across his face, teetered dangerously on the edge of hearty laughter. "I might have known, all along, that Toffee wouldn't photograph," he murmured. Then, he shook his head wonderingly and continued to his room. It would be nice, he thought, just having lunch ... in his own home ... with his own wife.