no place for titles. Mart Prescott—the pleasure is mine."
I faced the Chevalier Pierre Futaine.
We shook hands. My first impression was of icy cold, and a slick kind of dryness—and I let go of his hand too quickly to be polite. He smiled at me.
A charming man, the Chevalier. Or so he seemed. Slender, below medium height, his bland, round face seemed incongruously youthful. Blond hair was plastered close to his scalp. I saw that his cheeks were rouged—very deftly, but I know something about make-up. And under the rouge I read a curious, deathly pallor that would have made him a marked man had he not disguised it. Some disease, perhaps, had blanched his skin—but his lips were not artificially reddened. And they were as crimson as blood.
He was clean-shaved, wore impeccable evening clothes, and his eyes were black pools of ink.
"Glad to know you," I said. "You're the vampire, eh?"
He smiled. "So they tell me. But we all serve the dark god of publicity, eh, Mr. Prescott? Or—is it Mart?"
"It's Mart," I said, still staring at him. I saw his eyes go past me, and an extraordinary expression appeared on his face—an expression of amazement, disbelief. Swiftly it was gone.
I turned. Jean was approaching, was at my side as I moved. She said, "Is this the Chevalier?"
Pierre Futaine was staring at her, his lips parted a little. Almost inaudibly he murmured, "Sonya." And then, on a note of interrogation, "Sonya?"
I introduced the two. Jean said, "You see, my name isn't Sonya."
The Chevalier shook his head, an odd look in his black eyes.
"I once knew a girl like you," he said softly. "Very much like you. It is strange."
"Will you excuse me?" I broke in. Jack Hardy was leaving the bar. Quickly I followed him.
I touched his shoulder as he went out the French windows. He jerked out a startled oath, turned a white death-mask of a face to me.
"Damn you, Mart," he snarled. "Keep your hands to yourself."
I put my hands on his shoulders and swung him around.
"What the devil has happened to you?" I asked. "Listen, Jack, you can't bluff me or lie to me. You know that. I've straightened you out enough times in the past, and I can do it again. Let me in on it."
His ruined face softened. He reached up and took away my hands. His own were ice-cold, like the hands of the Chevalier Futaine.
"No," he said. "No use, Mart. There's nothing you can do. I'm all right, really. Just—overstrain. I had too good a time in Paris."
I was up against a blank wall. Suddenly, without volition, a thought popped into my mind and out of my mouth before I knew it.
"What's the matter with your neck?" I asked abruptly.
He didn't answer. He just frowned and shook his head.
"I've a throat infection," he told me. "Caught it on the steamer."
His hand went up and touched the black scarf.
There was a croaking, harsh sound from behind us—a sound that didn't seem quite human. I turned. It was Hess Deming. He was swaying in the portal, his eyes glaring and bloodshot, a little trickle of saliva running down his chin.
He said in a dead, expressionless voice
