Actually it was the little man's remark about the wives of respectable married men that halted Marc's step. Suddenly it struck him that perhaps this message had been delivered to him, through Fate, as a sort of warning. He pondered for a moment with furrowed brow, then, resolutely, he turned again and started back the way he had come. He had definitely made up his mind. Julie had taken the convertible, but the coupe was still in the garage. If he started out now, he could be at the country house well before noon, and Mario could be fired, packed and sent on his way before sunset. Business, for this one day, would have to wait.
His course of action set, Marc continued determinedly down the street. His only fear, now, was that he might be too late. Julie, quite extraordinarily, had taken her prized and priceless collection of jewels to the country, a fact which was so highly significant and disturbing. Julie was so inordinately proud of her jewels that she never removed them from the vault except for the most special of special occasions. Just what sort of special occasion she had been contemplating this time, Marc dreaded to think. By the time he had reached the alley, he had quite forgotten about the little man and the pursuing policeman. He started violently, therefore, when the policeman suddenly materialized from the mouth of the alley and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.
"Here you!" the policeman snarled. "Hold up there!"
"Who?" Marc said weakly. "Me?"
"Not your Aunt Fanny," the cop said sourly. His face was an angry crimson from running. "I seen you back there with Hotstuff."
"Hotstuff?" Marc said. "Oh, you mean the pictures that...."
"Don't give me that, mac," the cop growled. "Don't tell me you are just an innocent bystander. If you ain't that guy's confederate...."
"Confederate!" Marc wheezed. "Now, do I look like the sort of person who...."
"Exactly, mac," the cop said. "I'm used to you smooth operators." He reached in Marc's pocket and deftly removed a small packet of picture postcards. "And these look exactly like the kind of pictures you'd be sellin'."
Marc gazed down dumbly at the postcards. "Those aren't mine!" he gasped. "He must have planted them on me."