She made no reply; she was making a desperate effort to lash her mind into activity, to formulate some means of combating the being who tortured her.
"It has weakened him, too," the other proceeded. "This disturbed love of his has taken away the mastery which birth gave him, and his enfeeblement has given that mastery to me. He knows now the reason for his weakness; I tell it to him too late to harm me."
Pat struggled for composure. The very presence of the cold demon tore at the roots of her self-control, and she suppressed a fierce desire to break into hysterical laughter. Ridiculous, hopeless, incomprehensible situation! She forced her quivering throat to husky speech.
"What—what are you?" she stammered.
"Synapse! I'm a question of synapses," jeered the other. "Simple! Very simple! Ask your friend the Doctor!"
"I think," said the girl, a measure of control returning to her voice, "that you're a devil. You're some sort of a fiend that has managed to attach itself to Nick, and you're not human. That's what I think!"
"Think what you please," said the other. "We're wasting time here," he said abruptly. "Come."
"Where?" Pat was startled; she felt a recurrence of fright.
"No matter where. Come."
"I won't! Why do you want me?"