“I can't help myself. But you're not my cousin Derek.” The faceless creature laughed. “That's a quick courting!” he sneered. “But one doesn't need to be a psycho-what-d'ye-call-it, as Aird says, to see what's in your mind.” His voice became tinged with a menace beside which Aird's seemed childish. “You think you've only got to say ‘Yes’ now; then, when it comes to the point, you'll turn on us and give the show away? We're not such fools as all that. I've got a string that I'm going to tie to your leg. It'll bring you running back to me and no questions asked.” He paused for a moment, as though expecting her to speak; but, as she said nothing, he continued in the same tone: “You think that the worst we could do to you would be to hand you over to Aird, there, or to share you amongst us. You can make your mind easy. It's not going to be that.” The wave of relief which passed over Cressida at this hint was followed by a chill of apprehension as she realised the full implication of his words. He did not keep her on tenterhooks long. “Ever heard of hydrophobia? Know much about it? No? Well, then, I'll tell you something. You get bitten by a mad dog. First of all you feel tired and restless; and naturally you can't help being worried a bit. Then, after a day or two, things get a bit more definite. You can't swallow, and you get a thirst that torments you. Then, they say, you get spasms even at the thought of drinking; and you get into a state of devilish funk—unspeakable terror, they say in the books. After that you get fits—frothing at the mouth, and all the rest of the jolly business. And, of course, eventually you die after considerable agony, if you get the proper dose. I'd hate to see a pretty girl like you afflicted in that way. Dreadful waste of good material.” He paused deliberately, letting this picture sink into her mind, and scanning her face to see the effect which he had produced. “No mad dogs here, of course; but they have them in France. I've a French medical friend who's kindly supplied me with some extract taken from one of them.” Again he paused, to let anticipation do its work. “If you get injected with this extract, or whatever it is, there's only one hope. Within a certain number of days you've got to get to a Pasteur Institute and put yourself under treatment there. Nothing else is any good. And, if you overshoot the time, even the Pasteur Institute can do nothing for you. You just go on till you froth at the mouth, get cramp in the throat, and die that rather disgusting death.” He looked down at Cressida's face, with its eyes dark with horror; and something which might have been a smile passed over his shattered countenance. “My French medical friend supplied me with both the bane and the antidote—at least, enough of the antidote for a first dose. You see the point? Perhaps I'd better be precise. Here's a hypodermic syringe.”