"Goodbye, George, old boy," Marc said. "We won't soon forget you."
"No," Toffee seconded. "Not in a million years."
George was grinning as his face dissolved into thin air. The word "good-bye" whispered through the room, and for a moment seemed to coil warmly around Marc and Toffee, engulfing them in a tide of friendliness. Then it was gone.
"You know," Toffee said thoughtfully, "he really wasn't such a bad sort. I hope he makes out well with that High Council of his. They sounded awfully heavy-handed."
"If my feelings in the matter count for anything," Marc said, "he's a cinch."
During this tender passage the drumming had continued, unnoticed, on the door. But now that George had been seen off in proper style, the insistent reporters resumed their former place of pressing immediacy on the agenda.
"We've got to get out of here before they break that door in," Marc said.
"There's a side door," Toffee observed. "The Justice must have gone out that way."
"Good night!" Marc cried. "And the darned thing has been unlocked all this time. The reporters might have walked in on us at any minute. Well, let's get out before they do."
He walked to the door and reached for the knob, but he never quite completed the motion. Suddenly, the door burst open in his face, and its edge caught him squarely between the eyes. For a moment he rocked crazily back and forth, then he closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor.