For a long moment, they just stood and stared at each other with apprehension.
"Well," Toffee said finally, "don't just stand there,—knock, ring a bell,—do something!"
"Don't rush me," Marc hissed irritably. "I'm looking for a name plate."
"Well, don't look at me. I'm not wearing one. Try looking on the door."
Marc, realizing the wisdom of her advice, turned his attention to the forbidding panel, and subjected it to a more thorough scrutiny than was absolutely necessary. All he needed was a magnifying glass to complete his impersonation of Sherlock Holmes on one of his more important cases. He was so close to the door, that when it suddenly opened, he nearly pitched into apartment number seven head first.
"I heard you snooping around out here!" a metallic voice shrilled above him. Marc could hardly believe his ears.
He had always known that, as long as he lived, he would never see a more horrible looking woman than Miss Quirtt, but now, as he looked up, he was dismayed to find that even she, this time a prickly nightmare in pin curlers, had surpassed herself for sheer frightfulness. And just to complete the picture, there was a strange light in her pallid eyes, that he had never seen there before. The movie monsters would have to go a long way to match this, he thought.
"Nice of you to drop in," Miss Quirtt said, and her usual twangey voice had something else in it that was almost undefinable. "Might as well ask your girl friend in too."
From outside, Toffee was spared the alarming sight of Miss Quirtt, but the voice had already suggested to her what she might see, if the door were fully open. "I think I have to be running along," she said uncertainly. "Thanks."
"I think you'd better come in," Marc warned shakily. "She's got a gun."