Marc brought his other hand down to the ledge, found a hold and clung. He drew in a breath of relief and his whole body throbbed with the beat of his heart. As he hung there, his body continued upward, however, upending him crazily against the wall of the hotel.
Down on the sidewalk, the Blemishes were instantly inspired to action.
"Come on!" they yelled. "Let's fish him in!"
Toffee looked at the two men. She was in no mood or position to question any source of aid at the moment, no matter how questionable it appeared. She turned to George with cool hostility.
"You make a move out of this car," she threatened, "and you'll be only a ghost of a ghost when I get through with you." Then, swinging the car door open, she joined the dark Blemishes in a streaking dash toward the entrance of the hotel.
On the fifth floor of the Wynant, Mrs. Hunter Reynolds sat rigidly in her bathtub and stared with fixed horror at the face which had just appeared upside down at her bathroom window. An old belle of the old South, Mrs. Hunter Reynolds had ventured into the North expecting only the worst. Now the worst had happened.
The shaken lady gripped the sides of her tub and tried hard to prevent herself from sinking to a watery grave. She closed her eyes and reasoned sternly with herself; it was all a trick of the imagination; even a damnyankee head couldn't do the disgraceful thing this crazy head was doing. And then her eyes flew wildly open as the room suddenly dinned with a shouted plea for help.
At this point Mrs. Hunter Reynolds had a plea of her own to shout. "God in heaven, sir!" she said, trying desperately to maintain some last shred of dignity now that all decency was gone. "God in heaven, stop invadin' my privacy this way. I ask it in the name of the South."
"Help me!" Marc panted. "Come pull me in!"