completely dark. The labored progress of the strange party wending its way to the fourth floor was accompanied by a fruity assortment of stumblings, curses and giggles. When they finally arrived at the offices of the Pillsworth Advertising Agency, Marc handed his keys to Mr. Culpepper under the false impression that the little man could better negotiate the keyhole. To the befogged scientist, however, the lock was a writhing, squirming thing that constantly and with utter perverseness, avoided his grasp. The struggle became a very personal thing with the little man. He threw himself against the door with all his might.

"Won't hold still, eh?" he challenged. "Well, we'll see about that!"

With a snort of disgust, Agatha took the keys from the little man, shoved him aside, and opened the door. With a curt nod she directed the others inside.

The journey through the outer office was accomplished without mishap, though Mr. Culpepper, running afoul of a swivel chair, had to be restrained from attacking the whirling piece of furniture bodily. Marc and Toffee took him in charge and guided him gently into Marc's private office, where Agatha and Chadwick had preceded them and turned on the lights.

Agatha turned on Toffee threateningly. "Well, we're here," she said. "Where are the pills?"

Toffee nodded toward the desk. "Over there," she said. "The green bottle."

At the sight of the bottle both Agatha and Chadwick seemed to lose a good deal of their dignified reserve; they fairly trampled each other in a rush for the desk. Reaching the bottle, they grappled openly across the desk for its possession. Marc and Toffee dropped Mr. Culpepper to the lounge and stood by for developments.

"Give it here!" Agatha shrilled. "Let me have it, do you hear!"

"I'll let you have it right enough," Chadwick grunted back at her. "I'll let you have it right in the eye with my fist."

"Louse!" Agatha yelled. "I'm going to be head of this organization. I have the brains anyway."

"Since when?" Chadwick jeered. "If it weren't for me you'd still be carrying grog behind a bar."

"Yes," Agatha said evilly, trying to twist the bottle out of his hand, "and you, sponge that you are, would be soaking it up as fast as I could carry it. Give me that bottle, you old rummy."

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