"I was on my way to save your wretched life," Toffee replied haughtily. "I cornered Marge back at the lodge and made her tell me the whole story. She thought you were already dead, but I knew you weren't. If I still existed, you did too. So I ran up there to stop Pete from killing you. Now I get blamed."
Marc took her hand in his. "You were wonderful," he said sincerely.
"You bet I was," Toffee said self-righteously. "It was that fiend, George, that caused all the trouble."
Marc had almost forgotten the ghost in the excitement of the last half hour. "That demon! First I couldn't get rid of him, then when I wanted him, he wasn't anywhere."
"Of course not. George went back to ... well, wherever he came from. Remember how he disappeared at the table?" Marc nodded. "Well, George did his swan song right there."
"What!"
"Sure. Because of that fortuneteller," Toffee explained. "It was the simplest thing in the world. She said it was written in your hand that you would live a long time. Well, George believed her. And if you were going to live, he had to get going. That's the rules, and he's a stickler for the rules. And it's only natural that George believes in fortunetellers. He's very superstitious, you know. After all, he's a ghost, himself, isn't he?"
"I see," Marc murmured wonderingly. "Then George is gone for good."
Toffee nodded and began to laugh. "You remember how that jug lurched about when George disappeared?"
"Uh-huh. What's so funny about that?"