"Good night!" Marc said. "Someone else might. Is the formula in it?"
"Oh, no," the little man said. "There's nothing in it but my dirty laundry. I never put my experiments on paper."
"Where is the formula?"
Mr. Culpepper smiled. "In my head," he said. "I work everything out in my head. I just go into a kind of trance and things start coming to me. I don't really need a laboratory at all but it makes a better impression to have one. I just go down there and cook up a pot of coffee once in a while for the sake of appearances."
At last Marc unraveled the snarl of knots about the little man's wrists. "There you are," he said. "Let's go."
He proceeded to the door of the truck and peeked out. Memphis and the policeman were at a safe distance and seemed too involved in a heated argument to notice anything else. Marc lowered himself to the ground and turned back, holding out his arms. "Here, I'll help you down," he said to Toffee. "Just give me your...."
"Now isn't that obliging?" a man's voice said smoothly behind him. "The little tyke's put his hands up without even being told. Good training will tell every time, Agatha, I've always said it."
Something cold and round nuzzled Marc's spine with unrequited affection.
"He shows splendid manners," a woman's voice returned, "for one so young."