"They've gone and we'd better do the same."
"Just a moment," replied Toffee and disappeared into the crowd again. Marc made a grab for her but missed. Presently she returned, beaming triumphantly. Under her arm, she carried a bottle of champagne.
"I don't see why we should let it go to waste," she explained. Marc groaned and hurried her off toward the entrance.
Outside, they were greeted not only by the cool, evening air, but also by what appeared to be the entire police force. The manager of the Spar Club stood behind them.
"There they are, boys!" he yelled excitedly. "Grab 'em!"
Toffee was delighted to find herself, once more, the center of attention. She looked up at the judge with a disarming smile. She felt a little sorry for the poor little man—he seemed so perplexed by everything. Marc stood beside her, wondering vaguely if he weren't dead, and if not, why not. The judge fixed Toffee with a baleful stare.
"Who did you say your parents were?" His voice was that of a martyr.
"A moonlit night and a yearning spirit," said Toffee blandly. The judge's eyes rolled ceilingward.
"Oh, good Lord," he sighed in pure supplication.