was saying. At last he sat up on the couch, blinking, and a gleam of realization came into his sunken eyes.
"Prescott," he said, "can't you leave me alone?"
I leaned close to him, articulating carefully so he would be sure to understand me. "I know what the Chevalier Futaine is," I said.
And I waited for the dreadful, impossible confirmation, or for the words which would convince me that I was an insane fool.
Hardy looked at me dully. "How did you find out?" he whispered.
An icy shock went through me. Up to that moment I had not really believed, in spite of all the evidence. But now Hardy was confirming the suspicions which I had not let myself believe.
I didn't answer his question. Instead, I said, "Do you know about Hess?"
He nodded, and at sight of the agony in his face I almost pitied him. Then the thought of Jean steadied me.
"Do you know where he is now?" I asked.
"No. What are you talking about?" he flared suddenly. "Are you mad, Mart? Do you"
"I'm not mad. But Hess Deming is." He looked at me like a cowering, whipped dog.
I went on grimly: "Are you going to tell me the truth? How you got those marks on your throat? How you met this—creature? And where he's taken Jean?"
"Jean!" He looked genuinely startled. "Has he got—I didn't know that, Mart—I swear I didn't. You—you've been a good friend to me, and—and I'll tell you the truth—for your sake and Jean's—although now it may be too late"
My involuntary movement made him glance at me quickly. Then he went on.
"I met him in Paris. I was out after new sensations—but I didn't expect anything like that. A Satanist club—devilworshippers, they were. The ordinary stuff—cheap, furtive blasphemy. But it was there that I met—him.
"He can be a fascinating chap when he tries. He drew me out, made me tell him about Hollywood—about the women we have here. I bragged a little. He asked me about the stars, whether they were really as beautiful as they seemed. His eyes were hungry as he listened to me, Mart.
"Then one night I had a fearful nightmare. A monstrous, black horror crept in through my window and attacked me—bit me in the throat, I dreamed, or thought I did. After that
"I was in his power. He told me the truth. He made me his slave, and I could do nothing. His powers—are not human."
I licked dry lips. Hardy continued: "He made me bring him here, introducing him as a new discovery to be starred in Red Thirst—I'd mentioned the picture to him, before I—knew. How he must have laughed at me! He made me serve him, keeping away photographers, making sure that there were no cameras, no mirrors near him. And for a reward—he let me live."
I knew I should feel contempt for Hardy, panderer to such a loathsome evil. But somehow I couldn't.
I said quietly, "What about Jean? Where does the Chevalier live?"
He told me. "But you can't do anything, Mart. There's a vault under the house, where he stays during the day. It can't be opened, except with a key he always keeps with him—a silver key. He had a door specially made, and then did something to it so that nothing can open it but that key. Even dynamite wouldn't do it, he told me."
