Then, without a glance at the figure still leaning against
the building, he swept from the sidewalk the dark mass that was Pat's
dress and her wrap, and re-entered the car beside her. "Shall I turn him in?" asked the man in the front seat. "We can't afford the publicity," said the Doctor, adding grimly, "I'll
settle with him later." Pat's head lurched as the car started; she was losing consciousness,
and realized it vaguely, but she retained one impression as the vehicle
swung into motion. She perceived that the face of the lone figure
leaning against the building, a face staring at her with horror and
unbelief, was no longer the visage of the demon of the evening, but
that of her own Nick. 11

Wreckage


Pat opened her eyes reluctantly, with the impression that something
unpleasant awaited her return to full consciousness. Something, as yet
she could not recall just what, had happened to her; she was not even
sure where she was awakening. However, her eyes surveyed her own familiar room; there opposite the
bed grinned the jade Buddha on his stand on the mantel--the one that
Nick had--Nick! A mass of troubled, terrible recollections thrust
themselves suddenly into consciousness. She visioned a medley of
disturbing pictures, as yet disconnected, unassorted, but waiting only
the return of complete wakefulness. And she realized abruptly that her
head ached miserably, that her mouth was parched, that twinges of pain
were making themselves evident in various portions of her anatomy. She
turned her head and caught a glimpse of a figure at the bed-side; her
startled glance revealed Dr. Horker, sitting quietly watching her. "Hello, Doctor," she said, wincing as her smile brought a sharp pain
from her lips. "Or should I say, Good morning, Judge?" "Pat!" he rumbled, his growling tones oddly gentle. "Little Pat! How do
you feel, child?" "Fair," she said. "Just fair. Dr. Carl, what happened to me last night? I can't seem to remember--Oh!" A flash of recollection pierced the obscure muddle. She remembered
now--not all of the events of that ghastly evening, but enough. Too
much! "Oh!" she murmured faintly. "Oh, Dr. Carl!" "Yes," he nodded. "'Oh!' --and would you mind very much telling me what
that 'Oh' of yours implies?" "Why--". She paused shuddering, as one by one the events of that
sequence of horrors reassembled themselves. "Yes, I'd mind very
much," she continued. "It was nothing--" She turned to him abruptly. "Oh, it was, though, Dr. Carl! It was horrible, unspeakable,
incomprehensible!--But I can't talk about it! I can't!" "Perhaps you're right," said the Doctor mildly. "Don't you really want
to discuss it?" "I do want to," admitted the girl after a moment's reflection. "I want
to--but I can't. I'm afraid to think of all of it." "But what in Heaven's name did you do?" "We just started out to go dancing," she said hesitatingly. "Then, on
the way to town, Nick--changed. He said someone was following us." "Some one was," said Horker. "_I_ was, with Mueller. That Nick of yours
has the Devil's own cleverness!" "Yes," the girl echoed soberly. "The Devil's own!--Who's Mueller, Dr. Carl?" "He's a plain-clothes man, friend of mine. I treated him once. What do
you mean by changed?" "His eyes," she said. "And his mouth. His eyes got reddish and
terrible, and his mouth got straight and grim. And his voice turned
sort of--harsh." "Ever happen before, that you know of?" "Once. When--" She paused. "Yes. Last Wednesday night, when you came over to ask those questions
about pure science. What happened then?" "We went to a place to dance." "And that's the reason, I suppose," rumbled the Doctor sardonically,
"that I found you wandering about the streets in a table cloth,
step-ins, and a pair of hose! That's why I found you on the verge of
passing out from rotten liquor, and looking like the loser of a battle
with an airplane propellor! What happened to your face?" "My face? What's wrong with it?" The Doctor rose from his chair and seized the hand-mirror from her
dressing table. "Look at it!" he commanded, passing her the glass. Pat gazed incredulously at the reflection the surface presented; a dark
bruise colored her cheek, her lips were swollen and discolored, and her
chin bore a jagged scratch. She stared at the injuries in horror. "Your knees are skinned, too," said Horker. "Both of them." Pat slipped one pajamaed limb from the covers, drawing the pants-leg up
for inspection. She gasped in startled fright at the great red stain on
her knee. "That's mercurochrome," said the Doctor. "I put it there." "_You_ put it there. How did I get home last night, Dr. Carl? How did I
get to bed?" "I'm responsible for that, too. I put you to bed." He leaned forward. "Listen, child--your mother knows nothing about this as yet. She wasn't
home when I brought you in, and she's not awake yet this morning. We'll tell her you had an automobile accident; explain away those
bruises.--And now, how did you get them?" "I fell, I guess. Two or three times." "That bruise on your cheek isn't from falling." The girl shuddered. Now in the calm light of morning, the events of
last night seemed doubly horrible; she doubted her ability to believe
them, so incredible did they seem. She was at a loss to explain even
her own actions, and those of Nicholas Devine were simply beyond
comprehension, a chapter from some dark and blasphemous book of ancient
times--the Kabbala or the Necronomicon. "What happened, Pat?" queried the Doctor gently. "Tell me," he urged
her. "I--can't explain it," she said doubtfully. "He took me to that place,
but drinking the liquor was my own fault. I did it out of spite because
I saw he didn't--care for me. And then--" She fell silent. "Yes? And then?" "Well--he began to talk about the beauty of evil, the delights of evil,
and his eyes glared at me, and--I don't understand it at all, Dr. Carl,
but all of a sudden I was--yielding. Do you see?" "I see," he said gently, soberly. "Suddenly I seemed to comprehend what he meant--all that about the
supreme pleasure of evil. And I was sort of--swept away. The dress--was
his fault, but I--somehow I'd lost the power to resist. I guess I was
drunk." "And the bruises? And your cut lips?" queried the Doctor grimly. "Yes," she said in a low voice. "He--struck me. After a while I didn't
care. He could have--would have done other things, only we were
interrupted, and had to leave. And that's all, Dr. Carl." "Isn't that enough?" he groaned. "Pat, I should have killed the fiend
there!" "I'm glad you didn't." "Do you mean to say you'd care?" "I--don't know." "Are you intimating that you still love him?" "No," she said thoughtfully. "No, I don't love him, but--Dr. Carl,
there's something inexplicable about this. There's something I don't
understand, but I'm certain of one thing!" "What's that?" "That it wasn't Nick--not _my_ Nick--who did those things to me last
night. It wasn't, Dr. Carl!" "Pat, you're being a fool!" "I know it. But I'm sure of it, Dr. Carl.