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—devil-worshippers, 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.”