The House of Dark Pleasure
by Gloria Day
The needle plunged into Doris's arm again, and she lay very still on the bare mattress, her eyes open but unseeing, and the voices and sounds in the small room were just a garbled cacophony to her drugged ears.
"That'll keep her for four or five hours," said the heavy-set man of medium height and middle years.
He removed the needle from the syringe, replaced them both in a small case and snapped it shut.
"Thank you, Doctor Marston," said the tall, gaunt-faced woman, emphasizing the Doctor because Basil Marston wasn't a doctor any more: not since a zealous medical association had removed his name from its list because of unethical behavior or professional misconduct as they viewed his illegal operations and indiscriminate use of prohibited drugs.
"I don't like it," the ex-doctor muttered now, looking at the young girl on the bed.
A tousled lock of brunette hair had fallen onto her forehead, making Doris Dainton look younger than her twenty-three years. Her big, brown eyes--usually luminous and alert--were dull and listless, and her five-foot-one, one-hundred-pound body slumped, rather than lay, on the bed in the upstairs room in the bleak, rambling mansion in a remote
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