I _know_ Nick; I loved him,
and I know he couldn't have done--that. Not the same gentle Nick that I
had to beg to kiss me!" "Pat," said the Doctor gently, "I'm a psychiatrist; it's my business
to know all the rottenness that can hide in a human being. My office
is the scene of a parade of misfits, failures, potential criminals,
lunatics, and mental incompetents. It's a nasty, bitter side I see of
life, but I know that side--and I tell you this fellow is dangerous!" "Do you understand this, Dr. Carl?" He reached over, taking her hand in his great palm with its long,
curious delicate fingers. "I have my theory, Pat. The man's a sadist,
a lover of cruelty, and there's enough masochism in any woman to make
him terribly dangerous. I want your promise." "About what?" "I want you to promise never to see him again." The girl turned serious eyes on his face; he noted with a shock of
sympathy that they were filled with tears. "You warned me I'd get burned playing with fire," she said. "You did,
didn't you?" "I'm an old fool, Honey. If I'd believed my own advice, I'd have seen
that this never happened to you." He patted her hand. "Have I your
promise?" She averted her eyes. "Yes," she murmured. He winced as he perceived
that the tears were on her cheeks. "So!" he said, rising. "The patient can get out of bed when she feels
like it--and don't forget that little fib we've arranged for your
mother's peace of mind." She stared up at him, still clinging to his hand. "Dr. Carl," she said, "are you sure--quite sure--you're right about
him? Couldn't there be a chance that you're mistaken--that it's
something your psychiatry has overlooked or never heard of?" "Small chance, Pat dear." "But a chance?" "Well, neither I nor any reputable medic claims to know everything, and
the human mind's a subtle sort of thing." 12

Letter from Lucifer


"I'm glad!" Pat told herself. "I'm glad it's over, and I'm glad I
promised Dr. Carl--I guess I was mighty close to the brink of disaster
that time." She examined the injuries on her face, carefully powdered to conceal
the worst effects from her mother. The trick had worked, too; Mrs.
Lane had delivered herself of an excited lecture on the dangers of
the gasoline age, and then thanked Heaven it was no worse. Well, Pat
reflected, she had good old Dr. Carl to thank for the success of the
subterfuge; he had broken the news very skillfully, set the stage for
her appearance, and calmed her mother's apprehensions of scars. And
Pat, surveying her image in the glass above her dressing-table, could
see for herself the minor nature of the hurts. "Scars--pooh!" she observed. "A bruised cheek, a split lip, a skinned
chin. All I need is a black eye, and I guess I'd have had that in five
minutes more, and perhaps a cauliflower ear into the bargain." But her mood was anything but flippant; she was fighting off the time
when her thoughts had of necessity to face the unpleasant, disturbing
facts of the affair. She didn't want to think of the thing at all;
she wanted to laugh it off and forget it, yet she knew that for an
impossibility. The very desire to forget she recognized as a coward's
wish, and she resented the idea that she was cowardly. "Forget the wise-cracks," she advised her image. "Face the thing and
argue it out; that's the only way to be satisfied." She rose with a little grimace of pain at the twinge from her bruised
knees, and crossed to the chaise lounge beside the far window. She
settled herself in it and resumed her cogitations. She was feeling more
or less herself again; the headache of the morning had nearly vanished,
and aside from the various aches and a listless fagged-out sensation,
she approximated her normal self. Physically, that is; the shadow of
that other catastrophe, the one she hesitated to face, was another
matter. "I'm lucky to get off this easily," she assured herself, "after going
on a bust like that one, like a lumberjack with his pay in his pocket." She shook her head in mournful amazement. "And I'm Patricia Lane, the
girl whom Billy dubbed 'Pat the Impeccable'! Impeccable! Wandering
through alleys in step-ins and a table cloth--getting beaten up in a
drunken brawl--passing out on rot-gut liquor--being carried home and
put to bed! Not impeccable; incapable's the word! I belong to Dr.
Carl's parade of incompetents." She continued her rueful reflections. "Well, item one is, I don't love
Nick any more. I couldn't now!" she flung at the smiling green buddha
on the mantel. "That's over; I've promised." Somehow there was not satisfaction in the memory of that promise. It
was logical, of course; there wasn't anything else to do now, but
still--

"That _wasn't_ Nick!" she told herself. "That wasn't _my_ Nick. I guess
Dr. Carl is right, and he's a depressed what-ever-it-was; but if he's
crazy, so am I! He had me convinced last night; I understood what he
meant, and I felt what he wanted me to feel. If he's crazy, I am too; a
fine couple we are!" She continued. "But it wasn't Nick! I saw his face when we drove off,
and it had changed again, and that was Nick's face, not the other. And
he was sorry; I could see he was sorry, and the other could never have
regretted it--not ever! The other isn't--quite human, but Nick is." She paused, considering the idea. "Of course," she resumed, "I might
have imagined that change at the end. I was hazy and quavery, and it's
the last thing I _do_ remember; that must have been just before I
passed out." And then, replying to her own objection, "But I _didn't_ imagine it! I
saw it happen once before, that other night when--Well, what difference
does it make, anyway? It's over, and I've given my promise." But she was unable to dismiss the matter as easily as that. There
was some uncanny, elusive element in it that fascinated her. Cruel,
terrible, demoniac, he might have been; he had also been kind, lovable,
and gentle. Yet Dr. Carl had told her that split personalities could
contain no characteristics that were not present in the original,
normal character. Was cruelty, then, a part of kindness? Was cruelty
merely the lack of kindness, or, cynical thought, was kindness but the
lack of cruelty? Which qualities were positive in the antagonistic
phases of Nicholas Devine's individuality, and which negative? Was the
gentle, lovable, but indubitably weaker character the split, and the
demon of last evening his normal self? Or vice-versa? Or were both of
these fragmentary entities, portions of some greater personality as yet
unapparent to her? The whole matter was a mystery; she shrugged in helpless perplexity. "I don't think Dr. Carl knows as much about it as he says," she mused. "I don't think psychiatry or any other science knows that much about
the human soul. Dr. Carl doesn't even believe in a soul; how could he
know anything about it, then?" She frowned in puzzlement and gave up
the attempt to solve the mystery.