"My face? What's wrong with it?" The Doctor rose from his chair and seized the hand-mirror from her dressing table. "Look at it!" he commanded, passing her the glass. Pat gazed incredulously at the reflection the surface presented; a dark bruise colored her cheek, her lips were swollen and discolored, and her chin bore a jagged scratch. She stared at the injuries in horror. "Your knees are skinned, too," said Horker. "Both of them." Pat slipped one pajamaed limb from the covers, drawing the pants-leg up for inspection. She gasped in startled fright at the great red stain on her knee. "That's mercurochrome," said the Doctor. "I put it there." "_You_ put it there. How did I get home last night, Dr. Carl? How did I get to bed?" "I'm responsible for that, too. I put you to bed." He leaned forward. "Listen, child--your mother knows nothing about this as yet. She wasn't home when I brought you in, and she's not awake yet this morning. We'll tell her you had an automobile accident; explain away those bruises.--And now, how did you get them?" "I fell, I guess. Two or three times." "That bruise on your cheek isn't from falling." The girl shuddered. Now in the calm light of morning, the events of last night seemed doubly horrible; she doubted her ability to believe them, so incredible did they seem. She was at a loss to explain even her own actions, and those of Nicholas Devine were simply beyond comprehension, a chapter from some dark and blasphemous book of ancient times--the Kabbala or the Necronomicon. "What happened, Pat?" queried the Doctor gently. "Tell me," he urged her. "I--can't explain it," she said doubtfully. "He took me to that place, but drinking the liquor was my own fault. I did it out of spite because I saw he didn't--care for me. And then--" She fell silent. "Yes? And then?" "Well--he began to talk about the beauty of evil, the delights of evil, and his eyes glared at me, and--I don't understand it at all, Dr. Carl, but all of a sudden I was--yielding. Do you see?" "I see," he said gently, soberly. "Suddenly I seemed to comprehend what he meant--all that about the supreme pleasure of evil. And I was sort of--swept away. The dress--was his fault, but I--somehow I'd lost the power to resist. I guess I was drunk." "And the bruises? And your cut lips?" queried the Doctor grimly. "Yes," she said in a low voice. "He--struck me. After a while I didn't care. He could have--would have done other things, only we were interrupted, and had to leave. And that's all, Dr. Carl." "Isn't that enough?" he groaned. "Pat, I should have killed the fiend there!" "I'm glad you didn't." "Do you mean to say you'd care?" "I--don't know." "Are you intimating that you still love him?" "No," she said thoughtfully. "No, I don't love him, but--Dr. Carl, there's something inexplicable about this. There's something I don't understand, but I'm certain of one thing!" "What's that?"