"I want to dance!" she cried. "I'm drunk and I want to dance! Am I drunk?" she appealed to her companion. "Yes," he said. "I am not! I just want to dance, only it's hot in here. Dance with me, Nicholas--show me an evil dance! I want to dance with the Devil, and I will! You're the Devil, name and all! I want to dance with Old Nick himself!" She rose unsteadily from her chair; instantly the room reeled crazily about her and she fell sprawling. She felt the grasp of arms beneath her shoulders, raising her erect; she leaned against the wall and heard herself laughing wildly. "Funny room!" she said. "Evil room--on pivots!" "You're still to learn," came the toneless voice of Nicholas Devine. "Do you want to see the face of evil?" "Sure!" she said. "Got a good memory for faces!" She realized that he was fumbling with the catch of her dress on her left shoulder; again some remnant, some vestige of sanity deep in her brain warned her. "Mustn't," she said vaguely. Then suddenly the catch was open; the dress dropped away around her, crumpling to a shapeless blob of cloth about her diminutive feet. She covered her face with her hands, fighting to hold that last, vanishing vestige of sobriety, while she stood swaying drunkenly against the wall. Then Nicholas Devine's arms were about her again; she felt the sharp sting of his kisses on her throat. He swung her about, bent her backwards across the low table; she was conscious of a bewildered sensation of helplessness and of little else. "Now the supreme glory of evil!" he was muttering in her ear. She felt his hands on her bare shoulders as he pressed her backward. Then, abruptly, he paused, releasing her. She sat dizzily erect, following the direction of his gaze. In the half open door stood the nondescript bartender leering in at them. 10 Rescue from Abaddon Pat slid dizzily from her perch on the table and sank heavily to a chair. The interruption of the mustached keeper of this den of contradictions struck her as extremely humorous; she giggled hysterically as her wavering gaze perceived the consternation in his sharp little face. Some forlorn shred of modesty asserted itself, and she dragged a corner of the red-checked table cloth across her knees. "Get out!" said Nicholas Devine in that voice of rasping metal. "Get out!" he repeated in unchanging tones. The other made no move to leave. "Yeah?" he said. "Listen, Bud--this place is respectable, see? You want to pull something like this, you go upstairs, see? And pay for your room." "Get out!" There was no variation in the voice. "_You_ get out! The both of you, see?" Nicholas Devine stepped slowly toward him; his back, as he advanced upon the bartender, was toward Pat, yet through the haze of intoxication, she had an impression of evil red eyes in a chill, impassive face. "Get out!" The other had no stomach for such an adversary. He backed out of the door, closing it as he vanished. His voice floated in from the hall.