Whoever the artist had been, his eye for the feminine form was both exact and subtle. The girl of the drawing, though scantily clad, was, unlike the nude photographs, in no way distasteful. She reclined in space, one slender leg outstretched, a look of artful speculation in her eyes. Her hand was at her hair, having caught its silken strands between her tapering fingers.

Marc's gaze held to the drawing with unaccountable fascination. It wasn't just the excellence of the sketch that held him, but something more. Staring fixedly at the girl on the wall, it came to him that perhaps she reminded him of someone he knew. Then suddenly it came to him in a flash.

"Toffee!" he whispered.

He withdrew his gaze hastily from the drawing, trying to force his thoughts into other, less dangerous channels. At the moment, Toffee was the last thing he wanted on his mind.

The truth of the matter was that Toffee was a phenomenon to which Marc would never completely adjust. The thought that, within the depths of his own subconscious, there was a personality of such force and completeness that she had assumed a will and strength all her own, was simply too much for him. It would always upset Marc that his mere awareness of Toffee was enough to project into reality a living, breathing, hell-raising creature who was very much flesh and bone.

It was also alarming that Toffee was so completely untouched by worldly inhibitions. Not of this earthly realm, and therefore unaware of its mores and social dogmas, the girl had an absolute genius for saying and doing, in any given situation, the very thing most likely to curdle the blood and curl the hair. Worse still, though, was her curious sense of economy which caused her to regard her own physical perfection—her flaming red hair, her vivid green eyes and her scandalously voluptuous figure—as mere commodities that could not possibly be permitted to languish. To her way of thinking, that these remarkable gifts should be left unobserved, unadmired and unused was purely and shockingly sinful.

Not by any stretch of the imagination was Toffee the proper subject with which to concern one's thoughts in a jail cell. With a shudder, Marc forced his attention to his immediate predicament and leaned back in his bunk.

The shock of his incarceration was beginning to wear off a bit now, and with its passing it suddenly occurred to him that, as yet, he hadn't even been permitted to call his lawyer. Righteous 

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