“Oh!” she gasped faintly, then with a return of breath, “That was nice, Nick!”
Beyond the bridge, the road widened once more; she felt the car slowing, edging toward the broad shoulder of the road.
“There was danger,” said her companion in tones as emotionless as the rasping of metal. “I came to save it.”
“Save what?” queried Pat as the car slid to a halt on the turf.
“Your body.” The tones were still cold, like grinding wheels. “The beauty of your body!”
He reached a thin hand toward her, suddenly seized her skirt and snatched it above the silken roundness of her knees. “There,” he rasped. “That is what I mean.”
“Nick!” Pat half-screamed in appalled astonishment. “How—” She paused, shocked into abrupt silence, for the face turned toward her was but a remote, evil caricature of Nicholas Devine’s. It leered at her out of bloodshot eyes, as if behind the mask of Nick’s face peered a red-eyed demon.
V
A Fantasy of Fear
The satyr beside Pat was leaning toward her; the arm about her was tightening with a brutal ruthlessness, and while still staring in fascination at the incredible eyes, she realized that another arm and a white hand was moving relentlessly, exploratively, toward her body. It was the cold touch of this hand as it slipped over her silk-sheathed legs that broke the chilling spell of her fascination.
“Nick!” she screamed. “Nick!” She had a curious sensation of calling him back from far distances, the while she strove with both hands and all her strength to press him back from her. But the ruthless force of his arms was overcoming her resistance; she saw the red eyes a hand’s breadth from her own.
“Nick!” she sobbed in terror.
There was a change. Abruptly, she was looking into Nick’s eyes, bloodshot, frightened, puzzled, but indubitably Nick’s eyes. The flaming orbs of the demon were no more; it was as if they had receded into Nick’s head. The arm about her body relaxed, and they were staring at each other in a medley of consternation, amazement and unbelief. The youth drew back, huddled in his corner of the car, and Pat, breathing in sobs, smoothed out her rumpled apparel with a convulsive movement.
“Pat!” he gasped. “Oh, my God! He couldn’t have—” He paused abruptly. The girl gazed at him without reply.
“Pat, Dear,” he spoke in a low, tense murmur, “I’m—sorry. I don’t know—I don’t understand how—”
“Never mind,” she said, regaining a vestige of her customary composure. “It’s—all right, Nick.”
“But—oh, Pat—!”
“It was that near accident,” she said. “That upset you—both of us, I mean.”
“Yes!” he said eagerly. “That’s what it was, Pat. It must have been that, but Dear, can you forgive? Do you want to forgive me?”
“It’s all right,” she repeated. “After all, you just complimented my legs, and I guess I can stand that. It’s happened before, only not quite so—convincingly!”
“You’re sweet, Pat!”
“No; I just love you Nick.” She felt a sudden pity for the misery in his face. “Kiss me, Nick—only gently.”
He pressed his lips to hers, very lightly, almost timidly. She lay back against the seat for a moment, her eyes closed.
“That’s you again,” she murmured. “This other—wasn’t.”
“Please, Pat! Don’t refer to it—not ever.”
“But it wasn’t you, Nick. It was just the strain of that narrow escape. I don’t hold it against you.”
“You’re—Lord, Pat, I don’t deserve you. But you know that I—I myself—could never touch you except in tenderness, even in reverence. You’re too dainty, too lovely, too spirited, to be hurt, or to be held roughly, against your will. You know I feel that way about you, don’t you?”
“Of course. It was nothing, Nick. Forget it.”
“If I can,” he said somberly. He switched on the engine, backed out upon the pavement, and turned the car toward the glow that marked Chicago. Neither of them spoke as the machine hummed over the arching bridge and down the slope, where, so few minutes before, the threat of accident had thrust itself at them.
“We won’t see a moon tonight,” said Pat in a small voice, after an interval. “We’ll never check up on Dr. Carl’s astronomy.”
“You don’t want to tonight, Pat, do you?”
“I guess perhaps we’d better not,” she replied. “We’re both upset, and there’ll be other nights.”
Again they were silent. Pat felt strained, shaken; there was something uncanny about the occurrence that puzzled her. The red eyes that had glared out of Nick’s face perplexed her, and the curious rasping voice he had used still sounded inhumanly in her memory. Out of recollection rose still another mystery.
“Nick,” she said, “what did you mean—then—when you said there was danger and you came to save me?”
“Nothing,” he said sharply.
“And then, afterwards, you started to say something about ‘He couldn’t have—’. Who’s ‘he’?”
“It meant nothing, I tell you. I was frantic to think you might have been hurt. That’s all.”
“I believe you, Honey,” she said, wondering whether she really did. The thing was beginning to grow hazy; already it was assuming merely the proportions of an upheaval of youthful fervor. Such occurrences were not unheard of, though never before had it happened to Patricia Lane! Still, even that was conceivable, far more conceivable than the dark, unformed, inchoate suspicions she had been harboring. They hadn’t even been definite enough to be called suspicions; indefinite apprehensions came closer.
And yet—that strange, wild face that had formed itself of Nick’s fine features, and the terrible red eyes! Were they elements in a picture conjured out of her own imagination? They must be, of course. She had been frightened by that hairbreadth escape, and had seen things that didn’t exist. And the rest of it—well, that might be natural enough. Still, there was something—she knew that; Nick had admitted it.
Horker’s words concerning Nick’s father rose in her mind. Suspected of being crazy! Was that it? Was that the cause of Nick’s curious reluctance where she was concerned? Was the face that had glared at her the visage of a maniac? It
