“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 spitfire, 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.
VII
The Red Eyes Return
“I suppose I really ought
