The sergeant grabbed at his nose and observed the lady with deep-seated hostility. "Lady," he said, "you're tamperin' with the law, you are!"
"You've tampered with worse than that!" the little lady retorted. "If I were a little younger I'd have you for mashing!"
Meanwhile, Marc and Toffee, taking the stairs two at a time, had reached the third floor where, in a dim cavern of soft lights and muted music, the Parisian styles were being displayed, as they should be, on lovely living models. Marc turned to Toffee and burped impatiently.
"If you're determined to do this," he said, "be quick about it." He burped again. "The law is practically breathing down our necks!"
"Why do you keep making that revolting noise?" Toffee asked interestedly. "It sounds like hogs rooting in the mire."
Marc winced at her indelicacy. "I can't help it," he said. "When I'm upset it affects my stomach."
"Then do something about it," Toffee commanded airily and drifted away.
Marc started to protest that there was very little he could do about it as long as she kept him upset, when he remembered the bottle the druggist had given him and took it from his pocket. Removing the cap, he took a deep, hurried draft. This done, he screwed the cap back on and replaced the bottle in his pocket.
He completed this maneuver just in time, for no sooner did the syrup hit his gullet than he issued an explosive cough and staggered forward as though he had received a healthy blow from and to the rear. The liquid burned inside him like liquid fire.