"That it wasn't Nick--not _my_ Nick--who did those things to me last night. It wasn't, Dr. Carl!" "Pat, you're being a fool!" "I know it. But I'm sure of it, Dr. Carl. I _know_ Nick; I loved him, and I know he couldn't have done--that. Not the same gentle Nick that I had to beg to kiss me!" "Pat," said the Doctor gently, "I'm a psychiatrist; it's my business to know all the rottenness that can hide in a human being. My office is the scene of a parade of misfits, failures, potential criminals, lunatics, and mental incompetents. It's a nasty, bitter side I see of life, but I know that side--and I tell you this fellow is dangerous!" "Do you understand this, Dr. Carl?" He reached over, taking her hand in his great palm with its long, curious delicate fingers. "I have my theory, Pat. The man's a sadist, a lover of cruelty, and there's enough masochism in any woman to make him terribly dangerous. I want your promise." "About what?" "I want you to promise never to see him again." The girl turned serious eyes on his face; he noted with a shock of sympathy that they were filled with tears. "You warned me I'd get burned playing with fire," she said. "You did, didn't you?" "I'm an old fool, Honey. If I'd believed my own advice, I'd have seen that this never happened to you." He patted her hand. "Have I your promise?" She averted her eyes. "Yes," she murmured. He winced as he perceived that the tears were on her cheeks. "So!" he said, rising. "The patient can get out of bed when she feels like it--and don't forget that little fib we've arranged for your mother's peace of mind." She stared up at him, still clinging to his hand. "Dr. Carl," she said, "are you sure--quite sure--you're right about him? Couldn't there be a chance that you're mistaken--that it's something your psychiatry has overlooked or never heard of?" "Small chance, Pat dear." "But a chance?" "Well, neither I nor any reputable medic claims to know everything, and the human mind's a subtle sort of thing." 12 Letter from Lucifer "I'm glad!" Pat told herself. "I'm glad it's over, and I'm glad I promised Dr. Carl--I guess I was mighty close to the brink of disaster that time." She examined the injuries on her face, carefully powdered to conceal the worst effects from her mother. The trick had worked, too; Mrs. Lane had delivered herself of an excited lecture on the dangers of the gasoline age, and then thanked Heaven it was no worse. Well, Pat reflected, she had good old Dr. Carl to thank for the success of the subterfuge; he had broken the news very skillfully, set the stage for her appearance, and calmed her mother's apprehensions of scars. And Pat, surveying her image in the glass above her dressing-table, could see for herself the minor nature of the hurts. "Scars--pooh!" she observed. "A bruised cheek, a split lip, a skinned chin. All I need is a black eye, and I guess I'd have had that in five minutes more, and perhaps a cauliflower ear into the bargain."