He held her a moment, patting her tousled black head with his massive, delicate fingered hand. Then he released her, turning to Nick.
“This the stuff?” he asked, brusquely, indicating the cabinet of bottles, with its splintered front.
Nick nodded. Pat sank to the chair beside the table and watched Horker as he scanned the array of containers. He pulled out a tiny wooden case and snapped it open to reveal a number of steel needles that glinted brightly in the yellow light. He grunted in satisfaction and continued his inspection.
“Atropine,” he muttered, reading the labeled boxes. “Cocaine, daturine, hyoscine, hyoscyamine—won’t do!”
“What do you need?” the girl queried faintly.
“A mild hypnotic,” said the Doctor abstractedly, still searching. “Pretty good substitutes for psychoanalysis—certain drugs. Dulls the conscious mind, but not to complete unconsciousness. Good means of getting at the subconscious. See?”
“Sort of,” said Pat. “If it only works!”
“Oh, it’ll work if we can find—ah!” He seized a tiny cardboard box. “Scopolamine! This’ll do the work.”
He extracted a tiny glassy something from one or other of the boxes he held, and frowned down at it. He seized the carafe of water, plunged something pointed and shiny into it.
“Antiseptic,” he muttered thoughtfully. He seized a brown bottle from the case, held it toward the light, and shook it. “Peroxide’s gone flat,” he growled. “Nothing but water.”
He pulled a silver cigar-lighter from his pocket and snapped a yellow flame to it. He passed the point of the hypodermic rapidly back and forth through the little spear of fire. Finally he turned to Nick.
“Take off your coat,” he ordered. “Roll up your shirt sleeve—the left one. And sit over there.” He indicated the couch along the wall.
The youth obeyed without a word. The only indication of emotion was a long, miserable, wistful look at Pat as he seated himself impassively on the spot that the girl had so recently occupied.
“Now!” said the Doctor briskly, approaching the youth. “This will make you drowsy, sleepy. That’s all it’ll do. Don’t fight the effect. Just relax, let the thing take its course, and I’ll see what I can get out of you.”
Pat gasped and Nick winced as he drove the needle into the bared arm.
“So!” he said. “Now relax. Lean back and close your eyes.”
He stepped to the door, dragged in a battered chair from the hall, and occupied it. He sat beside Pat, watching the pale features of the youth, who sat quietly with closed eyes, breathing slowly, heavily.
“Long enough,” muttered Horker. He raised his voice. “Can you hear me?” he called to the motionless figure on the couch. There was no response, but Pat fancied she saw a slight change in Nick’s expression.
“Can you hear me?” repeated Horker in louder tones.
“Yes, I can hear you,” came in icy tones from the figure on the couch. Pat started violently as the voice sounded. The eyes opened, and she saw in sudden terror the ruddy orbs of the demon!
XXX
The Demon Free
Pat emitted a small, startled shriek, and heard it echoed by a surprised grunt from Dr. Horker.
“Queer!” he muttered. “The stuff must be mislabeled. Scopolamine doesn’t act like this; it’s a narcotic.”
“He’s—the other!” gasped Pat, while the being on the couch grinned sardonically.
“Eh? An attack? Can’t be!” The Doctor shook his head emphatically.
“It’s not Nick!” cried the girl in panic. “You’re not, are you?” she appealed to the grim entity.
“Not your sweetheart?” queried the creature, still with his mocking leer. “A few hours ago you were lying here all but naked, confessing you were mine. Have you forgotten?”
She shuddered at the reference, and shrank back in her chair. She heard the Doctor’s ominous, angry rumble, and the evil tittering chuckle of the other.
“Pathological or not,” snapped Horker, “I can resent your remarks! I’ve considered several times varying my treatment with another solid cut to the jaw!” He rose from his chair, stamping viciously toward the other.
“A moment,” said Nicholas Devine. “Do you know what you’ve done? Have you any idea what you’ve done?” He turned cool, mocking, red-glinting eyes on the Doctor.
“Huh?” Horker paused as if puzzled. “What I’ve done? What do you mean?”
“You don’t know, then.” The other gave a satyric smile. “You’re stupid; I gave you the clue, yet you hadn’t the intelligence to follow it. Do you know what I am?” He leaned forward, his eyes leering evilly into the Doctor’s. “I’ll tell you. I’m a question of synapses. That’s all—merely a question of synapses!” He tittered again, horribly. “It still means nothing to you, doesn’t it, Doctor?”
“I’ll show you what it means!” Horker clenched a massive fist and strode toward the figure, whose eyes stared, steadily, unwinkingly into his own.
“Back!” the being snapped as the great form bent over him. The Doctor paused as if struck rigid, his arm and heavy fist drawn back like the conventional fighting pose of a boxer. “Go back!” repeated the other, rising. Pat whimpered in abject terror as she heard Horker’s surprised grunt, and saw him recede slowly, and finally sink into his chair. His bewildered eyes were still fixed on those of Nicholas Devine.
“I’ll tell you what you’ve done!” said the strange being. “You’ve freed me! There was nothing wrong with your scopolamine. It worked!” He chuckled. “You drugged him and freed me!”
Horker managed a questioning grunt.
“I’m free!” exulted the other. “For the first time I haven’t him to fight! He’s here, but helpless to oppose me—he’s feeble—feeble!” He gave again the horrible tittering chuckle. “See how weak the two of you are against my unopposed powers!” he jeered. “Weaklings—food for my pleasures!”
He turned his eyes, luminous and avid, on Pat. “This time,” he said, “there’ll be no interruptions. A witness to our experiment will add a delicate touch of pleasure—”
He broke off at the Doctor’s sudden
