He did some work at the Cook County Asylum,
some research work, and there was a bit of talk about his maltreating
the patients. Then, on top of that, he published a paper that medical
men considered crazy, and that started talk of his sanity. That's all I
know." "Then Nick--." "I thought so! So it's come to the point where you're investigating his
antecedents, eh? With an eye to marriage, or what?" "Or what!" snapped Pat. "I was curious to know, naturally." "Naturally." The Doctor gave her a keen glance from his shrewd eyes. "Did you think you detected incipient dementia in your ideal?" "No," said the girl thoughtfully. "Dr. Carl, is there any sort
of craziness that could take an ordinarily shy person and make a
passionate devil of him? I don't mean passionate, either," she added. "Rather cold, ruthless, domineering." "None that I know of," said Horker, watching her closely. "Did this
Nick of yours have one of his masterful moments?" "Worse than that," admitted Pat reluctantly. "We had a near accident,
and it startled both of us, and then suddenly, he was looking at me
like a devil, and then--" She paused. "It frightened me a little." "What'd he do?" demanded Horker sharply. "Nothing." She lied with no hesitation. "Were there any signs of Satyromania?" "I don't know. I never heard of that." "I mean, in plain Americanese, did he make a pass at you?" "He--no, he didn't." "Well, what _did_ he do?" "He just looked at me." Somehow a feeling of disloyalty was rising in
her; she felt a reluctance to betray Nick further. "What did he say, then? And don't lie this time." "He just said--He just looked at my legs and said something about their
being beautiful, and that was all. After that, the look on his face
faded into the old Nick." "Old Nick is right--the impudent scoundrel!" Horker's voice rumbled
angrily. "Well, they're nice legs," said Pat defiantly, swinging them as
evidence. "You've said it yourself. Why shouldn't _he_ say it? What's
to keep him from it?" "The code of a gentleman, for one thing!" "Oh, who cares for your Victorian codes! Anyway, I came here for
information, not to be cross-examined. I want to ask the questions
myself." "Pat, you're a reckless little spit-fire, and you're going to get
burned some day, and deserve it," the Doctor rumbled ominously. "Ask
your fool questions, and then I'll ask mine." "All right," said the girl, still defiant. "I don't guarantee to answer
yours, however." "Well, ask yours, you imp!" "First, then--Is that Satyro-stuff you mentioned intermittent or
continuous?" "It's necessarily intermittent, you numb-skull! The male organism can't
function continuously!" "I mean, does the mania lie dormant for weeks or months, and then flare
up?" "Not at all. It's a permanent mania, like any other psychopathic sex
condition." "Oh," said Pat thoughtfully, with a sense of relief. "Well, go on. What next?" "What are these dual personalities you read about in the papers?" "They're aphasias. An individual forgets his name, and he picks, or is
given, another, if he happens to wander among strangers. He forgets
much of his past experience; the second personality is merely what's
left of the first--sort of a vestige of his normal character. There
isn't any such thing as a dual personality in the sense of two distinct
characters living in one body." "Isn't there?" queried the girl musingly. "Could the second personality
have qualities that the first one lacked?" "Not any more than it could have an extra finger! The second is merely
a split off the first, a forgetfulness, a loss of memory. It couldn't
have _more_ qualities than the whole, or normal, character; it _must_
have fewer." "Isn't that just too interesting!" said Pat in a bantering tone. "All
right, Dr. Carl. It's your turn." "Then what's the reason for all this curiosity about perversions and
aphasias? What's happened to your genius now?" "Oh, I'm thinking of taking up the study of psychiatry," replied the
girl cheerfully. "Aren't you going to answer me seriously?" "No." "Then what's the use of my asking questions?" "I know the right answer to that one. None!" "Pat," said Horker in a low voice, "you're an impudent little hoyden,
and too clever for your own good, but you and your mother are very
precious to me. You know that." "Of course I do, Dr. Carl," said the girl, relenting. "You're a dear,
and I'm crazy about you, and you know that, too." "What I'm trying to say," proceeded the other, "is simply that I'm
trying to help you. I want to help you, if you need help. Do you?" "I guess I don't, Dr. Carl, but you're sweet." "Are you in love with this Nicholas Devine?" "I think perhaps I am," she admitted softly. "And is he in love with you?" "Frankly, could he help being?" "Then there's something about him that worries you. That's it, isn't
it?" "I thought there was, Dr. Carl. I was a little startled by the change
in him right after we had that narrow escape, but I'm sure it was
nothing--just imagination. Honestly, that's all that troubled me." "I believe you, Pat," said the Doctor, his eyes fixed on hers. "But
guard yourself, my dear. Be sure he's what you think he is; be sure you
know him rightly." "He's clean and fine," murmured the girl. "I _am_ sure." "But this puzzling yourself about his character, Pat--I don't like it. Make doubly sure before you permit your feelings to become too deeply
involved. That's only common sense, child, not psychiatry or magic." "I'm sure," repeated Pat. "I'm not puzzled or troubled any more. And
thanks, Dr. Carl. You run along to bed and I'll do likewise." He rose, accompanying her to the door, his face unusually grave. "Patricia," he said, "I want you to think over what I've said. Be
sure, be doubly sure, before you expose yourself to the possibility of
suffering. Remember that, won't you?" "I'll try to. Don't fret yourself about it, Dr. Carl; I'm a hard-boiled
young modern, and it takes a diamond to even scratch me." "I hope so," he said soberly. "Run along; I'll watch until you're
inside." Pat darted across the strip of grass, turned at her door to blow a
goodnight kiss to the Doctor, and slipped in. She tiptoed quietly to
her room, slipped off her dress, and surveyed her long, slim legs in
the mirror. "Why shouldn't he say they were beautiful?" she queried of the image. "I can't see any reason to get excited over a simple compliment like
that." She made a face over her shoulder at the green Buddha above the
fireplace. "And as for you, fat boy," she murmured, "I expect to see you wink at
me tonight. And every night hereafter!" She prepared herself for slumber, slipped into the great bed. She had
hardly closed her lids before the image of a leering face with terrible
bloody eyes flamed out of memory and set her trembling and shuddering. 7

The Red Eyes Return


"I suppose I really ought to meet your friends, Patricia," said Mrs.
Lane, peering out of the window, "but they all seem to call when I'm
not at home."