The salon, it turned out, was on the fifth floor of the Empire. On the way the manager paused briefly in the silver department to confer with a small, detached looking lady called Miss Winters.
"Things going well?" he asked.
"Oh, divinely!" Miss Winters twittered. "Just like magic. They're simply cleaning out the department."
"Bolting the meat and picking the bones, eh?" the manager beamed. "Stealing everything in sight, are they?"
"Oh, just!" Miss Winters nodded. "To give them encouragement, every so often I close my eyes and feign deep concentration. Every time I open my eyes the place looks just a little more like a desert wasteland."
"Just blinking away the merchandise, so to speak?"
"How cleverly you put it, Mr. Baker! You always were the one with the well-turned phrase, though." She colored prettily at her own boldness. "How would you like to hear that we've lost better than twenty thousand dollars just since opening this morning?"
"Splendid!" Mr. Baker said. "Splendid! Just keep up the good work, Miss Winters, and we'll be out of business in no time at all." As he turned away he smiled broadly at Marc and Toffee. "The sooner we unload all this junk the sooner we can close up and await the end with composure. As a matter of fact the advertising department has devised a little slogan: Steal at the Empire Before you Roast in Hellfire! Clever, eh?"
"Frightfully," Toffee said, "in the strictest sense of the word."
"Good grief," Marc said. "They're so used to the idea of dying, they're getting flip about it."