Sin transferred the card from her clutch. With characteristic bravado, he read the start of it aloud.
“Dolores Trent, Grief to Men, and bastard babe.”
“What’s that you say?” With unwonted eagerness, Satan possessed himself of the passport. “That is quite a title, ‘Grief to Men.’ I like it.”
He smiled peculiarly while giving his eyes to Earth’s verdict of the newcomer, as transcribed from that tome called “Judgments of Men” which is in charge of Mors, keeper of the Great Gates into Shadow Land. From between the two lines of his strong, white teeth, his tongue appeared and smoothed both lips.
The girl-soul, with the equivocal expression of one both fascinated and repulsed, watched him as he read:
“Dolores Trent, known as ‘Grief to Men.’ A cause of disaster from first breath to last. Her birth caused the death of her mother, whose loss brought her father to ruin. Directly responsible is she held for the wrecked careers of a successful merchant, an eminent Divine, a skilled healer, a previously exemplary millionaire, and an attorney of repute. As a climax, the supreme crime of womanhood is hers—an illegitimate child. Through life she has spread sorrow in her wake. Unto death she carries her murdered ill-begot, a suicide without repentance or appeal.”
The King commented: “Æons have come and gone since I have felt surprise. Completely did that look of yours deceive me. And Raphael must have altered the face of his Madonna had he first seen yours.”
Arising, he stepped from the dais, settled his crown a trifle more to one side and slicked his vandyke with meticulous care. He then approached the cowering figure on the steps.
“It is unseemly that you should remain upon your knees, madam or miss, when many stand who probably are not half so bad as you. Allow me.”
Stooping, he lifted her to her feet.