"... the man who's going to blow up the world," Toffee elaborated innocently.
The sheriff's huge hand came down thunderingly on the desk.
"That rips 'er!" he screamed. "That cops the cast iron feather duster!" He turned excitedly to one side. "George! George!"
A small, musty rustic emerged from the shadows and shuffled to the sheriff's side. "Yep, Mort?" he queried sadly. "What's up?"
"They are!" the sheriff thundered, pointing a long, gnarled finger dramatically at the captives. "Up fer life, I hope! Lock 'em up. Get 'em out of my sight afore I throttle the both of 'em with my own bare hands!"
George cast baleful, faded eyes at his two charges and nodded toward a door at the rear of the room. "Come along peaceable," he quavered. "The man'll have to bunk in with the drunk in number one." He looked at Toffee with a smile that was only a ghost of itself. "You can have a cell all to yourself, miss. We've got two."
Toffee cast a hopeful glance toward the street door, but instead of finding a possible path to freedom, it encountered only what appeared to be a solid wall of gaping mouths and goggling eyes. The villagers, currently looking like an assortment of strangling guppies in an over-crowded aquarium, had turned out to see the murderers; rare things in their quiet town. A low whistle issued from the staring group as Toffee moved into full view.
"Sure hot out tonight, ain't it?" a rural humorist commented sweetly, turning away.
Marc watched dolefully as the drunk, a dapper little man, bearing the mark of elegance in distress ... and alcoholism in over-abundance ... tottered uncertainly across the cell and clung eagerly to the bars. Blinking, he peered at Toffee in the opposite cell. "My wife would kill me," he murmured thickly. "Now I'm seein' redheaded dames!"