"The fools!" he mumbled bitterly. "If I could only tell them what she really is!" Within a few feet of the entrance, he paused again, resentfully. Was it his fault that the curse of many years before had made him an outcast from the very society that now applauded the brilliant Countess Moonard? He thrust back his cape. How good this musty dampness felt! For weeks he had not been outside his home. His lungs cried out in rebellion, cried greedily for deeper and deeper drafts of the refreshing breath of night. The Countess Moonard! His hatred flamed higher. Her guests ... fools! What would happen if he were to walk into that gay party scene, drop his cape from about his face, and tell them that---- * * * * * Suddenly he paused; the pale, frightened face of a beautiful girl was confronting him in the dim flare of the gas torch. It was too late to draw the folds of his cape about his face. The girl had already seen the sickening sight, and a stifled cry rose from her lovely throat. "Oh, Carl!" she stammered weakly, clutching the shoulder of the tall, handsome young man who stood beside her. "Ruth! Dearest--what----?" The young man was puzzled until he saw Pierre's face. Usually when Pierre saw that he had frightened someone with the sight of his horrible features, he turned and ran away, rather than suffer the indignity of an apology--but something about this girl made him linger. It was a small diamond-studded pendant that hung from about her slim white throat. In that, Pierre saw the unmistakable sign of death and despair that always cast its shadow upon the throats of the Countess Moonard's victims. The girl was marked! From the girl's face, Pierre turned to the young man. He looked into his eyes and saw there the familiar terror that always spread across the faces of those who looked upon him. A long moment of silence passed. The girl turned from him, covering her face with her hands and clinging tightly to the young man, who now stared at Pierre with growing inquisitiveness. "I'm sorry," Pierre finally said. The young man tried to look pleasant. He was an intelligent young doctor, and although the sight of Pierre had upset him, he was quickly regaining his poise. "Sorry? What for?" he asked. "My face, if it frightened you. It usually does." Pierre tried to smile. "Oh, yes, of course!" Carl spoke with more assurance now. The girl on his arm was still trembling. Neither Carl nor the girl wore wraps; they had been wandering through the gardens of the Countess Moonard's estate in preference to dancing. "Ruth, dearest, don't allow this to affect you." He patted her shoulder gently. "I say, old man, you gave her an awful fright. I don't wish to be unkind, but you really are enough to frighten anyone." Curiosity was fast overcoming Doctor Carl Fielding's fear. He looked closer into Pierre's face. "Are those boils or burns--or what? How long have you been afflicted this way?" "Ten years."