The Hairy Ones Shall Dance (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74120 ***

Foreword

To Whom It May Concern:

Few words are best, as Sir Philip Sidney once wrote in challenging anenemy. The present account will be accepted as a challenge by the vastarmy of skeptics of which I once made one. Therefore I write it briefand bald. If my story seems unsteady in spots, that is because the handthat writes it still quivers from my recent ordeal.

Shifting the metaphor from duello to military engagement, this is butthe first gun of the bombardment. Even now sworn statements are beingprepared by all others who survived the strange and, in some degree,unthinkable adventure I am recounting. After that, every great psychicinvestigator in the country, as well as some from Europe, will beginresearches. I wish that my friends and brother-magicians, Houdini andThurston, had lived to bear a hand in them.

I must apologize for the strong admixture of the personal element inmy narrative. Some may feel that I err against good taste. My humbleargument is that I was not merely an observer, but an actor, albeit aclumsy one, throughout the drama.

As to the setting forth of matters which many will call impossible,let me smile in advance. Things happen and have always happened, thatdefy the narrow science of test-tube and formula. I can only say againthat I am writing the truth, and that my statement will be supported bymy companions in the adventure.

Talbot Wills.

November 15, 1937.

1. "Why Must the Burden of Proof Rest with the Spirits?"

"You don't believe in psychic phenomena," said Doctor Otto Zoberg yetagain, "because you won't."

This with studied kindness, sitting in the most comfortable chair of myhotel room. I, at thirty-four, silently hoped I would have his healthand charm at fifty-four—he was so rugged for all his lean length,so well groomed for all his tweeds and beard and joined eyebrows, soarticulate for all his accent. Doctor Zoberg quite apparently liked andadmired me, and I felt guilty once more that I did not entirely returnthe compliment.

"I know that you are a stage magician——" he began afresh.

"I was once," I amended, a little sulkily. My early career hadbrought me considerable money and notice, but after the novelty ofshow business was worn off I had never rejoiced in it. Talboto theMysterious—it had been impressive, but tawdry. Better to be TalbotWills, lecturer and investigator in the field of exposing fraudulentmediums.

For six years I had known Doctor Otto Zoberg, the champion of spiritismand mediumism, as rival and companion. We had first met in debateunder auspices of the Society for Psychical Research in London. I,young enough for enthusiasm but also for carelessness, had been badlyout-thought and out-talked. But afterward, Doctor Zoberg had praisedmy arguments and my delivery, and had graciously taken me out to alate supper. The following day, there arrived from him a present ofhelpful books and magazines. Our next platform duel found me in aposition to get a little of my own back; and he, afterward, laughinglycongratulated me on turning to account the material he had sent me.After that, we were public foemen and personal inseparables. Justnow we were touring the United States, debating, giving exhibitions,visiting mediums. The night's program, before a Washington audienceliberally laced with high officials, had ended in what we agreed was adraw; and here we were, squabbling good-naturedly afterward.

"Please, Doctor," I begged, offering him a cigarette, "save yourcharges of stubbornness for the theater."

He waved my case aside and bit the end from a villainous black cheroot."I wouldn't say it, here or in public, if it weren't true, Talbot.Yet you sneer even at telepathy, and only half believe in mentalsuggestion. Ach, you are worse than Houdini."

"Houdini was absolutely sincere," I almost blazed, for I had knownand worshipped that brilliant and kindly prince of conjurers andfraud-finders.

"Ach, to be sure, to be sure," nodded Zoberg over his blazing match."I did not say he was not. Yet, he refused proof—the proof that hehimself embodied. Houdini was a great mystic, a medium. His power formiracles he did not know himself."

I had heard that before, from Conan Doyle as well as Zoberg, but I madeno comment. Zoberg continued:

"Perhaps Houdini was afraid—if anything could frighten so brave andwise a man it would assuredly come from within. And so he would noteven listen to argument." He turned suddenly somber. "Perhaps he knewbest, ja. But he was stubborn, and so are you."

"I don't think you can say that of me," I objected once more. Thecheroot was alight now, and I kindled a cigarette to combat in somedegree the gunpowdery fumes.

Teeth gleamed amiably through the beard, and Zoberg nodded again, infrank delight this time. "Oh, we have hopes of you, Wills, where wegave up Houdini."

He had never said that before, not so plainly at any rate. I smiledback. "I've always been willing to be shown. Give me a fool-proof,fake-proof, supernormal phenomenon, Doctor; let me convince myself;then I'll come gladly into the spiritist camp."

"Ach, so you always say!" he exploded, but without genuine wrath."Why must the burden of proof rest with the spirits? How can you provethat they do not live and move and act? Study what Eddington has to sayabout that."

"For five years," I reminded him, "I have offered a prize of fivethousand dollars to any medium whose spirit miracles I could notduplicate by honest sleight-of-hand."

He gestured with slim fingers, as though to push the words back intome. "That proves absolutely nothing, Wills. For all your skill, do youthink that sleight-of-hand can be the only way? Is it even the bestway?"

"I've unmasked famous mediums for years, at the rate of one a month," Iflung back. "Unmasked them as the clumsiest of fakes."

"Because some are dishonest, are all dishonest?" he appealed. "Whatspecific thing would convince you, my friend?"

I thought for a moment, gazing at him through the billows of smoke. Nota gray hair to him—and I, twenty years his junior, had six or eight ateither temple. I went on to admire and even to envy that pointed trowelof beard, the sort of thing that I, a magician, might have cultivatedonce. Then I made my answer.

"I'd ask for a materialization, Doctor. An ectoplasmic apparition,visible and solid to touch—in an empty room with no curtains orclosets, all entrances sealed by myself, the medium and witnessesshackled." He started to open his mouth, but I hurried to preventhim. "I know what you'll say—that I've seen a number of impressiveectoplasms. So I have, perhaps, but not one was scientifically anddispassionately controlled. No, Doctor, if I'm to be convinced, I mustmake the conditions and set the stage myself."

"And if the materialization was a complete success?"

"Then it would prove the claim to me—to the world. Materializationsare the most important question in the whole field."

He looked long at me, narrowing his shrewd eyes beneath the dark singlebar of his brows. "Wills," he said at length, "I hoped you would asksomething like this."

"You did?"

"Ja. Because—first, can you spare a day or so?"

I replied guardedly, "I can, I believe. We have two weeks or morebefore the New Orleans date." I computed rapidly. "Yes, that's December8. What have you got up your sleeve, Doctor?"

He grinned once more, with a great display of gleaming white teeth, andflung out his long arms. "My sleeves, you will observe, are empty!"he cried. "No trickery. But within five hours of where we sit—fivehours by fast automobile—is a little town. And in that town thereis a little medium. No, Wills, you have never seen or heard of her.It is only myself who found her by chance, who studied her long andprayerfully. Come with me, Wills—she will teach you how little youknow and how much you can learn!"

2. "You Can Almost Hear the Ghosts."

I have sat down with the purpose of writing out, plainly and evenflatly, all that happened to me and to Doctor Otto Zoberg in ourimpromptu adventure at psychic investigation; yet, almost at thestart, I find it necessary to be vague about the tiny town where thatadventure ran its course. Zoberg began by refusing to tell me its name,and now my friends of various psychical research committees have askedme to hold my peace until they have finished certain examinationswithout benefit of yellow journals or prying politicians.

It is located, as Zoberg told me, within five hours by fast automobileof Washington. On the following morning, after a quick and earlybreakfast, we departed at seven o'clock in my sturdy coupé. I drove andZoberg guided. In the turtle-back we had stowed bags, for the Novembersky had begun to boil up with dark, heavy clouds, and a storm mightdelay us.

On the way Zoberg talked a great deal, with his usual charm andanimation. He scoffed at my skepticism and prophesied my conversionbefore another midnight.

"A hundred years ago, realists like yourself were ridiculinghypnotism," he chuckled. "They thought that it was a fantastic fake,like one of Edgar Poe's amusing tales, ja? And now it is a greatscience, for healing and comforting the world. A few years ago, theworld scorned mental telepathy——"

"Hold on," I interrupted. "I'm none too convinced of it now."

"I said just that, last night. However, you think that there issome grain of truth to it. You would be a fool to laugh at the manyexperiments in clairvoyance carried on at Duke University."

"Yes, they are impressive," I admitted.

"They are tremendous, and by no means unique," he insisted. "Think of anumber between one and ten," he said suddenly.

I gazed at my hands on the wheel, thought of a joking reply, then fellin with his mood.

"All right," I replied. "I'm thinking of a number. What is it?"

"It is seven," he cried out at once, then laughed heartily at the blanklook on my face.

"Look here, that's a logical number for an average man to think of," Iprotested. "You relied on human nature, not telepathy."

He grinned and tweaked the end of his beard between manicured fingers."Very good, Wills, try again. A color this time."

I paused a moment before replying, "All right, guess what it is."

He, too, hesitated, staring at me sidewise. "I think it is blue," heoffered at length.

"Go to the head of the class," I grumbled. "I rather expected you toguess red—that's most obvious."

"But I was not guessing," he assured me. "A flash of blue came beforemy mind's eye. Come, let us try another time."

We continued the experiment for a while. Zoberg was not alwayscorrect, but he was surprizingly close in nearly every case. The mostinteresting results were with the names of persons, and Zoberg achievedsome rather mystifying approximations. Thus, when I was thinking ofthe actor Boris Karloff, he gave me the name of the actor Bela Lugosi.Upon my thinking of Gilbert K. Chesterton, he named Chesterton's closefriend Hilaire Belloc, and my concentration on George Bernard Shawbrought forth a shout of "Santa Claus." When I reiterated my charge ofpsychological trickery and besought him to teach me his method, he grewactually angry and did not speak for more than half an hour. Then hebegan to discuss our destination.

"A most amazing community," he pronounced. "It is old—one of theoldest inland towns of all America. Wait until you see the houses, myfriend. You can almost hear the ghosts within them, in broad daylight.And their Devil's Croft, that is worth seeing, too."

"Their what?"

He shook his head, as though in despair. "And you set yourself up as anauthority on occultism!" he sniffed. "Next you will admit that you havenever heard of the Druids. A Devil's Croft, my dull young friend, usedto be part of every English or Scots village. The good people would setaside a field for Satan, so that he would not take their own lands."

"And this settlement has such a place?"

"Ja wohl, a grove of the thickest timber ever seen in thisover-civilized country, and hedged in to boot. I do not say that theybelieve, but it is civic property and protected by special order fromtrespassers."

"I'd like to visit that grove," I said.

"I pray you!" he cried, waving in protest. "Do not make us unwelcome."

We arrived shortly before noon. The little town rests in a circularhollow among high wooded hills, and there is not a really good roadinto it, for two or three miles around. After listening to Zoberg, Ihad expected something grotesque or forbidding, but I was disappointed.The houses were sturdy and modest, in some cases poor. The greater partof them made a close-huddled mass, like a herd of cattle threatened bywolves, with here and there an isolated dwelling like an adventuresomeyoung fighting-bull. The streets were narrow, crooked and unpaved, andfor once in this age I saw buggies and wagons outnumbering automobiles.The central square, with a two-story town hall of red brick and ahideous cast-iron war memorial, still boasted numerous hitching-rails,brown with age and smooth with use. There were few real signs of modernprogress. For instance, the drug store was a shabby clapboard affairwith "Pharmacy" painted upon its windows, and it sold only drugs, sodaand tobacco; while the one hotel was low and rambling and bore thetitle "Luther Inn." I heard that the population was three hundred andfifty, but I am inclined to think it was closer to three hundred.

We drew up in front of the Luther Inn, and a group of roughly dressedmen gazed at us with the somewhat hostile interrogation that oftenmarks a rural American community at the approach of strangers. Thesem*n wore mail-order coats of corduroy or suede—the air was growingnippier by the minute—and plow shoes or high laced boots underdungaree pants. All of them were of Celtic or Anglo-Saxon type.

"Hello!" cried Zoberg jovially. "I see you there, my friend Mr. Gird.How is your charming daughter?"

The man addressed took a step forward from the group on the porch. Hewas a raw-boned, grizzled native with pale, pouched eyes, and was atrifle better dressed than the others, in a rather ministerial coat ofdark cloth and a wide black hat. He cleared his throat before replying.

"Hello, Doctor. Susan's well, thanks. What do you want of us?"

It was a definite challenge, that would repel or anger most men, butZoberg was not to be denied. He scrambled out of the car and cordiallyshook the hand of the man he had called Mr. Gird. Meanwhile he spoke infriendly fashion to one or two of the others.

"And here," he wound up, "is a very good friend of mine, Mr. TalbotWills."

All eyes—and very unfriendly eyes they were, as a whole—turned uponme. I got out slowly, and at Zoberg's insistence shook hands with Gird.Finally the grizzled man came with us to the car.

"I promised you once," he said glumly to Zoberg, "that I would let youand Susan dig as deeply as you wanted to into this matter of spirits.I've often wished since that I hadn't, but my word was never brokenyet. Come along with me; Susan is cooking dinner, and there'll beenough for all of us."

He got into the car with us, and as we drove out of the square andtoward his house he conversed quietly with Zoberg and me.

"Yes," he answered one of my questions, "the houses are old, as you cansee. Some of them have stood since the Revolutionary War with England,and our town's ordinances have stood longer than that. You aren't thefirst to be impressed, Mr. Wills. Ten years ago a certain millionairecame and said he wanted to endow us, so that we would stay as we are.He had a lot to say about native color and historical value. We toldhim that we would stay as we are without having to take money from him,or from anybody else for that matter."

Gird's home was large but low, all one story, and of darkly paintedclapboards over heavy timbers. The front door was hung on the mostmassive hand-wrought hinges. Gird knocked at it, and a slender,smallish girl opened to us.

She wore a woolen dress, as dark as her father's coat, with white atthe neck and wrists. Her face, under masses of thunder-black hair,looked Oriental at first glance, what with high cheek-bones and eyesset aslant; then I saw that her eyes were a bright gray like wornsilver, and her skin rosy, with a firm chin and a generous mouth. Thefeatures were representatively Celtic, after all, and I wondered forperhaps the fiftieth time in my life if there was some sort of bloodlink between Scot and Mongol. Her hand, on the brass knob of the door,showed as slender and white as some evening flower.

"Susan," said Gird, "here's Doctor Zoberg. And this is his friend, Mr.Wills."

She smiled at Zoberg, then nodded to me, respectfully and rather shyly.

"My daughter," Gird finished the introduction. "Well, dinner must beready."

She led us inside. The parlor was rather plainer than in mostold-fashioned provincial houses, but it was comfortable enough.Much of its furniture would have delighted antique dealers, and oneor two pieces would have impressed museum directors. The dining-roombeyond had plate-racks on the walls and a long table of dark wood,with high-backed chairs. We had some fried ham, biscuits, coffee andstewed fruit that must have been home-canned. Doctor Zoberg and Girdate heartily, talking of local trifles, but Susan Gird hardly touchedher food. I, watching her with stealthy admiration, forgot to take morethan a few mouthfuls.

After the repast she carried out the dishes and we men returned to theparlor. Gird faced us.

"You're here for some more hocus-pocus?" he hazarded gruffly.

"For another séance," amended Zoberg, suave as ever.

"Doctor," said Gird, "I think this had better be the last time."

Zoberg held out a hand in pleading protest, but Gird thrust his ownhands behind him and looked sternly stubborn. "It's not good for thegirl," he announced definitely.

"But she is a great medium—greater than Eusapia Paladino, or DanielHome," Zoberg argued earnestly. "She is an important figure in thepsychic world, lost and wasted here in this backwater——"

"Please don't miscall our town," interrupted Gird. "Well, Doctor, Iagree to a final séance, as you call it. But I'm going to be present."

Zoberg made a gesture as of refusal, but I sided with Gird.

"If this is to be my test, I want another witness," I told Zoberg.

"Ach! If it is a success, you will say that he helped to deceive."

"Not I. I'll arrange things so there will be no deception."

Both Zoberg and Gird stared at me. I wondered which of them was themore disdainful of my confidence.

Then Susan Gird joined us, and for once I wanted to speak of othersubjects than the occult.

3. "That Thing Isn't My Daughter——"

It was Zoberg who suggested that I take Susan Gird for a relaxing drivein my car. I acclaimed the idea as a brilliant one, and she, thankingme quietly, put on an archaic-seeming cloak, black and heavy. We lefther father and Zoberg talking idly and drove slowly through the town.

She pointed out to me the Devil's Croft of which I had heard from thedoctor, and I saw it to be a grove of trees, closely and almost ranklyset. It stood apart from the sparser timber on the hills, and around itstretched bare fields. Their emptiness suggested that all the capacityfor life had been drained away and poured into that central clump. Noroad led near to it, and I was obliged to content myself by idling thecar at a distance while we gazed and she talked.

"It's evergreen, of course," I said. "Cedar and a little juniper."

"Only in the hedge around it," Susan Gird informed me. "It was plantedby the town council about ten years ago."

I stared. "But surely there's greenness in the center, too," I argued.

"Perhaps. They say that the leaves never fall, even in January."

I gazed at what appeared to be a little fluff of white mist above it,the whiter by contrast with the black clouds that lowered around thehill-tops. To my questions about the town council, Susan Gird told mesome rather curious things about the government of the community. Therewere five councilmen, elected every year, and no mayor. Each of thefive presided at a meeting in turn. Among the ordinances enforced bythe council was one providing for support of the single church.

"I should think that such an ordinance could be set aside as illegal,"I observed.

"I think it could," she agreed, "but nobody has ever wished to try."

The minister of the church, she continued, was invariably a member ofthe council. No such provision appeared on the town records, nor was iteven urged as a "written law," but it had always been deferred to. Thesingle peace officer of the town, she continued, was the duly electedconstable. He was always commissioned as deputy sheriff by officials atthe county seat, and his duties included census taking, tax collectingand similar matters. The only other officer with a state commission wasthe justice; and her father, John Gird, had held that post for the lastsix years.

"He's an attorney, then?" I suggested, but Susan Gird shook her head.

"The only attorney in this place is a retired judge, Keith Pursuivant,"she informed me. "He came from some other part of the world, and heappears in town about once a month—lives out yonder past the Croft. Asa matter of fact, an ordinary experience of law isn't enough for ourpeculiar little government."

She spoke of her fellow-townsmen as quiet, simple folk who were contentfor the most part to keep to themselves, and then, yielding to myearnest pleas, she told me something of herself.

The Gird family counted its descent from an original settler—thoughshe was not exactly sure of when or how the settlement was made—andhad borne a leading part in community affairs through more than twocenturies. Her mother, who had died when Susan Gird was seven, had beena stranger; an "outlander" was the local term for such, and I think itis used in Devonshire, which may throw light on the original foundersof the community. Apparently this woman had shown some tendenciestoward psychic power, for she had several times prophesied comingevents or told neighbors where to find lost things. She was well lovedfor her labors in caring for the sick, and indeed she had died from afever contracted when tending the victims of an epidemic.

"Doctor Zoberg had known her," Susan Gird related. "He came hereseveral years after her death, and seemed badly shaken when he heardwhat had happened. He and Father became good friends, and he has beenkind to me, too. I remember his saying, the first time we met, that Ilooked like Mother and that it was apparent that I had inherited herspirit."

She had grown up and spent three years at a teachers' college, butleft before graduation, refusing a position at a school so that shecould keep house for her lonely father. Still idiotically mannerless, Imentioned the possibility of her marrying some young man of the town.She laughed musically.

"Why, I stopped thinking of marriage when I was fourteen!" she cried.Then, "Look, it's snowing."

So it was, and I thought it time to start for her home. We finishedthe drive on the best of terms, and when we reached her home inmidafternoon, we were using first names.

Gird, I found, had capitulated to Doctor Zoberg's genial insistence.From disliking the thought of a séance, he had come to savor theprospect of witnessing it—Zoberg had always excluded him before. Girdhad even picked up a metaphysical term or two from listening to thedoctor, and with these he spiced his normally plain speech.

"This ectoplasm stuff sounds reasonable," he admitted. "If there is anysuch thing, there could be ghosts, couldn't there?"

Zoberg twinkled, and tilted his beard-spike forward. "You will findthat Mr. Wills does not believe in ectoplasm."

"Nor do I believe that the production of ectoplasm would proveexistence of a ghost," I added. "What do you say, Miss Susan?"

She smiled and shook her dark head. "To tell you the truth, I'm awareonly dimly of what goes on during a séance."

"Most mediums say that," nodded Zoberg sagely.

As the sun set and the darkness came down, we prepared for theexperiment.

The dining-room was chosen, as the barest and quietest room in thehouse. First I made a thorough examination, poking into corners,tapping walls and handling furniture, to the accompaniment of jovialtaunts from Zoberg. Then, to his further amusem*nt, I produced from mygrip a big lump of sealing-wax, and with this I sealed both the kitchenand parlor doors, stamping the wax with my signet ring. I also closed,latched and sealed the windows, on the sills of which little heaps ofsnow had begun to collect.

"You're kind of making sure, Mr. Wills," said Gird, lighting a patentcarbide lamp.

"That's because I take this business seriously," I replied, and Zobergclapped his hands in approval.

"Now," I went on, "off with your coats and vests, gentlemen."

Gird and Zoberg complied, and stood up in their shirt-sleeves. Isearched and felt them both all over. Gird was a trifle bleak inmanner, Zoberg gay and bright-faced. Neither had any concealedapparatus, I made sure. My next move was to set a chair against theparlor door, seal its legs to the floor, and instruct Gird to sitin it. He did so, and I produced a pair of handcuffs from my bag andshackled his left wrist to the arm of the chair.

"Capital!" cried Zoberg. "Do not be so sour, Mr. Gird. I would nottrust handcuffs on Mr. Wills—he was once a magician and knows all theescape tricks."

"Your turn's coming, Doctor," I assured him.

Against the opposite wall and facing Gird's chair I set three morechairs, melting wax around their legs and stamping it. Then I draggedall other furniture far away, arranging it against the kitchen door.Finally I asked Susan to take the central chair of the three, seatedZoberg at her left hand and myself at her right. Beside me, on thefloor, I set the carbide lamp.

"With your permission," I said, and produced more manacles. First Ifastened Susan's left ankle to Zoberg's right, then her left wrist tohis right. Zoberg's left wrist I chained to his chair, leaving himentirely helpless.

"What thick wrists you have!" I commented. "I never knew they were sosinewy."

"You never chained them before," he grinned.

With two more pairs of handcuffs I shackled my own left wrist and ankleto Susan on the right.

"Now we are ready," I pronounced.

"You've treated us like bank robbers," muttered Gird.

"No, no, do not blame Mr. Wills," Zoberg defended me again. He lookedanxiously at Susan. "Are you quite prepared, my dear?"

Her eyes met his for a long moment; then she closed them and nodded. I,bound to her, felt a relaxation of her entire body. After a moment shebowed her chin upon her breast.

"Let nobody talk," warned Zoberg softly. "I think that this will be asuccessful venture. Wills, the light."

With my free hand I turned it out.

All was intensely dark for a moment. Then, as my eyes adjustedthemselves, the room seemed to lighten. I could see the deep grayrectangles of the windows, the snow at their bottoms, the blurredoutline of the man in his chair across the floor from me, the formof Susan at my left hand. My ears, likewise sharpening, detected thegirl's gentle breathing, as if she slept. Once or twice her right handtwitched, shaking my own arm in its manacle. It was as though shesought to attract my attention.

Before and a little beyond her, something pale and cloudy was makingitself visible. Even as I fixed my gaze upon it, I heard somethingthat sounded like a gusty panting. It might have been a tired dogor other beast. The pallid mist was changing shape and substance,too, and growing darker. It shifted against the dim light from thewindows, and I had a momentary impression of something erect butmisshapen—misshapen in an animal way. Was that a head? And were thosepointed ears, or part of a head-dress? I told myself determinedly thatthis was a clever illusion, successful despite my precautions.

It moved, and I heard a rattle upon the planks. Claws, or perhapshobnails. Did not Gird wear heavy boots? Yet he was surely sitting inhis chair; I saw something shift position at that point. The grotesqueform had come before me, crouching or creeping.

Despite my self-assurance that this was a trick, I could not govern thechill that swept over me. The thing had come to a halt close to me, waslifting itself as a hound that paws its master's knees. I was aware ofan odor, strange and disagreeable, like the wind from a great beast'scage. Then the paws were upon my lap—indeed, they were not paws. Ifelt them grip my legs, with fingers and opposable thumbs. A sniffingmuzzle thrust almost into my face, and upon its black snout a dim, wetgleam was manifest.

Then Gird, from his seat across the room, screamed hoarsely.

"That thing isn't my daughter——"

In the time it took him to rip out those five words, the huddledmonster at my knees whirled back and away from me, reared for a tricelike a deformed giant, and leaped across the intervening space uponhim. I saw that Gird had tried to rise, his chained wrist hamperinghim. Then his voice broke in the midst of what he was trying to say; hemade a choking sound and the thing emitted a barking growl.

Tearing loose from its wax fastenings, the chair fell upon its side.There was a struggle and a clatter, and Gird squealed like a rabbit ina trap. The attacker fell away from him toward us.

It was all over before one might ask what it was about.

4. "I Don't Know What Killed Him."

Just when I got up I do not remember, but I was on my feet as thegrapplers separated. Without thinking of danger—and surely danger wasthere in the room—I might have rushed forward; but Susan Gird, lyinglimp in her chair, hampered me in our mutual shackles. Standing whereI was, then, I pawed in my pocket for something I had not mentioned toher or to Zoberg; an electric torch.

It fitted itself into my hand, a compact little cylinder, and I whippedit out with my finger on the switch. A cone of white light spurtedacross the room, making a pool about and upon the motionless form ofGird. He lay crumpled on one side, his back toward us, and a smudge ofblack wetness was widening about his slack head and shoulders.

With the beam I swiftly quartered the room, probing it into everycorner and shadowed nook. The creature that had attacked Gird hadutterly vanished. Susan Gird now gave a soft moan, like a dreamer ofdreadful things. I flashed my light her way.

It flooded her face and she quivered under the impact of the glare, butdid not open her eyes. Beyond her I saw Zoberg, doubled forward in hisbonds. He was staring blackly at the form of Gird, his eyes protrudingand his clenched teeth showing through his beard.

"Doctor Zoberg!" I shouted at him, and his face jerked nervously towardme. It was fairly cross-hatched with tense lines, and as white as freshpipe-clay. He tried to say something, but his voice would not commanditself.

Dropping the torch upon the floor, I next dug keys from my pocket andwith trembling haste unlocked the irons from Susan Gird's wrist andankle on my side. Then, stepping hurriedly to Zoberg, I made him situp and freed him as speedily as possible. Finally I returned, found mytorch again and stepped across to Gird.

My first glance at close quarters was enough; he was stone-dead, withhis throat torn brutally out. His cheeks, too, were ripped in parallelgashes, as though by the grasp of claws or nails. Radiance suddenlyglowed behind me, and Zoberg moved forward, holding up the carbide lamp.

"I found this beside your chair," he told me unsteadily. "I found amatch and lighted it." He looked down at Gird, and his lips twitched,as though he would be hysterical.

"Steady, Doctor," I cautioned him sharply, and took the lamp from him."See what you can do for Gird."

He stooped slowly, as though he had grown old. I stepped to one side,putting the lamp on the table. Zoberg spoke again:

"It is absolutely no use, Wills. We can do nothing. Gird has beenkilled."

I had turned my attention to the girl. She still sagged in her chair,breathing deeply and rhythmically as if in untroubled slumber.

"Susan," I called her. "Susan!"

She did not stir, and Doctor Zoberg came back to where I bent aboveher. "Susan," he whispered penetratingly, "wake up, child."

Her eyes unveiled themselves slowly, and looked up at us. "What——"she began drowsily.

"Prepare yourself," I cautioned her quickly. "Something has happened toyour father."

She stared across at Gird's body, and then she screamed, tremulouslyand long. Zoberg caught her in his arms, and she swayed and shudderedagainst their supporting circle. From her own wrists my irons stilldangled, and they clanked as she wrung her hands in aimless distraction.

Going to the dead man once more, I unchained him from the chair andturned him upon his back. Susan's black cloak lay upon one of the otherchairs, and I picked it up and spread it above him. Then I went to eachdoor in turn, and to the windows.

"The seals are unbroken," I reported. "There isn't a space throughwhich even a mouse could slip in or out. Yet——"

"I did it!" wailed Susan suddenly. "Oh, my God, what dreadful thingcame out of me to murder my father!"

I unfastened the parlor door and opened it. Almost at the same time aloud knock sounded from the front of the house.

Zoberg lifted his head, nodding to me across Susan's tremblingshoulder. His arms were still clasped around her, and I could nothelp but notice that they seemed thin and ineffectual now. When I hadchained them, I had wondered at their steely cording. Had this awfulcalamity drained him of strength?

"Go," he said hoarsely. "See who it is."

I went. Opening the front door, I came face to face with a tall,angular silhouette in a slouch hat with snow on the brim.

"Who are you?" I jerked out, startled.

"O'Bryant," boomed back an organ-deep bass. "What's the fuss here?"

"Well——" I began, then hesitated.

"Stranger in town, ain't you?" was the next question. "I saw you whenyou stopped at the Luther Inn. I'm O'Bryant—the constable."

He strode across the door-sill, peered about him in the dark, and thenslouched into the lighted dining-room. Following, I made him out as astern, roughly dressed man of forty or so, with a lean face made strongby a salient chin and a simitar nose. His light blue eyes studiedthe still form of John Gird, and he stooped to draw away the cloak.Susan gave another agonized cry, and I heard Zoberg gasp as if deeplyshocked. The constable, too, flinched and replaced the cloak morequickly than he had taken it up.

"Who done that?" he barked at me.

Again I found it hard to answer. Constable O'Bryant sniffedsuspiciously at each of us in turn, took up the lamp and herded us intothe parlor. There he made us take seats.

"I want to know everything about this business," he said harshly."You," he flung at me, "you seem to be the closest to sensible. Give methe story, and don't leave out a single bit of it."

Thus commanded, I made shift to describe the séance and what had led upto it. I was as uneasy as most innocent people are when unexpectedlyquestioned by peace officers. O'Bryant interrupted twice with aguttural "Huh!" and once with a credulous whistle.

"And this killing happened in the dark?" he asked when I had finished."Well, which of you dressed up like a devil and done it?"

Susan whimpered and bowed her head. Zoberg, outraged, sprang to hisfeet.

"It was a creature from another world," he protested angrily. "None ofus had a reason to kill Mr. Gird."

O'Bryant emitted a sharp, equine laugh. "Don't go to tell me any ghoststories, Doctor Zoberg. We folks have heard a lot about the hocus-pocusyou've pulled off here from time to time. Looks like it might have beento cover up some kind of rough stuff."

"How could it be?" demanded Zoberg. "Look here, Constable, thesehandcuffs." He held out one pair of them. "We were all confined withthem, fastened to chairs that were sealed to the floor. Mr. Gird wasalso chained, and his chair made fast out of our reach. Go into thenext room and look for yourself."

"Let me see them irons," grunted O'Bryant, snatching them.

He turned them over and over in his hands, snapped them shut, tuggedand pressed, then held out a hand for my keys. Unlocking the cuffs, hepeered into the clamping mechanism.

"These are regulation bracelets," he pronounced. "You were all chainedup, then?"

"We were," replied Zoberg, and both Susan and I nodded.

Into the constable's blue eyes came a sudden shrewd light. "I guessyou must have been, at that. But did you stay that way?" He whippedsuddenly around, bending above my chair to fix his gaze upon me. "Howabout you, Mr. Wills?"

"Of course we stayed that way," I replied.

"Yeh? Look here, ain't you a professional magician?"

"How did you know that?" I asked.

He grinned widely and without warmth. "The whole town's been talkingabout you, Mr. Wills. A stranger can't be here all day without hiswhole record coming out." The grin vanished. "You're a magician, allright, and you can get out of handcuffs. Ain't that so?"

"Of course it's so," Zoberg answered for me. "But why should that meanthat my friend has killed Mr. Gird?"

O'Bryant wagged his head in triumph. "That's what we'll find out later.Right now it adds up very simple. Gird was killed, in a room that wasall sealed up. Three other folks was in with him, all handcuffed totheir chairs. Which of them got loose without the others catching on?"He nodded brightly at me, as if in answer to his own question.

Zoberg gave me a brief, penetrating glance, then seemed to shrivel upin his own chair. He looked almost as exhausted as Susan. I, too, wasfeeling near to collapse.

"You want to own up, Mr. Wills?" invited O'Bryant.

"I certainly do not," I snapped at him. "You've got the wrong man."

"I thought," he made answer, as though catching me in a damagingadmission, "that it was a devil, not a man, who killed Gird."

I shook my head. "I don't know what killed him."

"Maybe you'll remember after a while." He turned toward the door, "Youcome along with me. I'm going to lock you up."

I rose with a sigh of resignation, but paused for a moment to addressZoberg. "Get hold of yourself," I urged him. "Get somebody in here tolook after Miss Susan, and then clarify in your mind what happened. Youcan help me prove that it wasn't I."

Zoberg nodded very wearily, but did not look up.

"Don't neither of you go into that room where the body is," O'Bryantwarned them. "Mr. Wills, get your coat and hat."

I did so, and we left the house. The snow was inches deep and stillfalling. O'Bryant led me across the street and knocked on the door of apeak-roofed house. A swarthy little man opened to us.

"There's been a murder, Jim," said O'Bryant importantly. "Over atGird's. You're deputized—go and keep watch. Better take the missusalong, to look after Susan. She's bad cut up about it."

We left the new deputy in charge and walked down the street, thenturned into the square. Two or three men standing in front of the"Pharmacy" stared curiously, then whispered as we passed. Anotherfigure paused to give me a searching glance. I was not too stunned tobe irritated.

"Who are those?" I asked the constable.

"Town fellows," he informed me. "They're mighty interested to see whata killer looks like."

"How do they know about the case?" I almost groaned.

He achieved his short, hard laugh.

"Didn't I say that news travels fast in a town like this? Half thefolks are talking about the killing this minute."

"You'll find you made a mistake," I assured him.

"If I have, I'll beg your pardon handsome. Meanwhile, I'll do my duty."

We were at the red brick town hall by now. At O'Bryant's side I mountedthe granite steps and waited while he unlocked the big double door witha key the size of a can-opener.

"We're a kind of small town," he observed, half apologetically, "butthere's a cell upstairs for you. Take off your hat and overcoat—you'restaying inside till further notice."

5. "They Want to Take the Law into Their Own Hands."

The cell was an upper room of the town hall, with a heavy wooden doorand a single tiny window. The walls were of bare, unplastered brick,the floor of concrete and the ceiling of white-washed planks. An oillamp burned in a bracket. The only furniture was an iron bunk hingedto the wall just below the window, a wire-bound straight chair and anunpainted table. On top of this last stood a bowl and pitcher, withplaying-cards scattered around them.

Constable O'Bryant locked me in and peered through a small gratingin the door. He was all nose and eyes and wide lips, like a sardonicPunchinello.

"Look here," I addressed him suddenly, for the first time controllingmy frayed nerves; "I want a lawyer."

"There ain't no lawyer in town," he boomed sourly.

"Isn't there a Judge Pursuivant in the neighborhood?" I asked,remembering something that Susan had told me.

"He don't practise law," O'Bryant grumbled, and his beaked face slidout of sight.

I turned to the table, idly gathered up the cards into a pack andshuffled them. To steady my still shaky fingers, I produced a fewsimple sleight-of-hand effects, palming of aces, making a king riseto the top, and springing the pack accordion-wise from one hand to theother.

"I'd sure hate to play poker with you," volunteered O'Bryant, who hadcome again to gaze at me.

I crossed to the grating and looked through at him. "You've got thewrong man," I said once more. "Even if I were guilty, you couldn't keepme from talking to a lawyer."

"Well, I'm doing it, ain't I?" he taunted me. "You wait until tomorrowand we'll go to the county seat. The sheriff can do whatever he wantsto about a lawyer for you."

He ceased talking and listened. I heard the sound, too—a hoarse, dullmurmur as of coal in a chute, or a distant, lowing herd of troubledcattle.

"What's that?" I asked him.

O'Bryant, better able to hear in the corridor, co*cked his lean headfor a moment. Then he cleared his throat. "Sounds like a lot of peopletalking, out in the square," he replied. "I wonder——"

He broke off quickly and walked away. The murmur was growing. I,pressing close to the grating to follow the constable with my eyes,saw that his shoulders were squared and his hanging fists doubled, asthough he were suddenly aware of a lurking danger.

He reached the head of the stairs and clumped down, out of my sight.I turned back to the cell, walked to the bunk and, stepping upon it,raised the window. To the outside of the wooden frame two flat strapsof iron had been securely bolted to act as bars. To these I clung as Ipeered out.

I was looking from the rear of the hall toward the center of thesquare, with the war memorial and the far line of shops and houses seendimly through a thick curtain of falling snow. Something dark movedcloser to the wall beneath, and I heard a cry, as if of menace.

"I see his head in the window!" bawled a voice, and more cries greetedthis statement. A moment later a heavy missile hit the wall close tothe frame.

I dropped back from the window and went once more to the grating of thedoor. Through it I saw O'Bryant coming back, accompanied by severalmen. They came close and peered through at me.

"Let me out," I urged. "That's a mob out there."

O'Bryant nodded dolefully. "Nothing like this ever happened herebefore," he said, as if he were responsible for the town's wholehistory of violence. "They act like they want to take the law intotheir own hands."

A short, fat man spoke at his elbow. "We're members of the towncouncil, Mr. Wills. We heard that some of the citizens were gettingugly. We came here to look after you. We promise full protection."

"Amen," intoned a thinner specimen, whom I guessed to be the preacher.

"There are only half a dozen of you," I pointed out. "Is that enough toguard me from a violent mob?"

As if to lend significance to my question, from below and in front ofthe building came a great shout, compounded of many voices. Then a loudpounding echoed through the corridor, like a bludgeon on stout panels.

"You locked the door, Constable?" asked the short man.

"Sure I did," nodded O'Bryant.

A perfect rain of buffets sounded from below, then a heavy impact uponthe front door of the hall. I could hear the hinges creak.

"They're trying to break the door down," whispered one of the council.

The short man turned resolutely on his heel. "There's a window at thelanding of the stairs," he said. "Let's go and try to talk to themfrom that."

The whole party followed him away, and I could hear their feet on thestairs, then the lifting of a heavy window-sash. A loud and prolongedyelling came to my ears, as if the gathering outside had sighted andrecognized a line of heads on the sill above them.

"Fellow citizens!" called the stout man's voice, but before he couldgo on a chorus of cries and hoots drowned him out. I could hear morethumps and surging shoves at the creaking door.

Escape I must. I whipped around and fairly ran to the bunk, mountingit a second time for a peep from my window. Nobody was visible below;apparently those I had seen previously had run to the front of thehall, there to hear the bellowings of the officials and take a hand inforcing the door.

Once again I dropped to the floor and began to tug at the fastenings ofthe bunk. It was an open oblong of metal, a stout frame of rods strungwith springy wire netting. It could be folded upward against the walland held with a catch, or dropped down with two lengths of chain tokeep it horizontal. I dragged the mattress and blankets from it, thenbegan a close examination of the chains. They were stoutly made, butthe screw-plates that held them to the brick wall might be loosened.Clutching one chain with both my hands, I tugged with all my might, afoot braced against the wall. A straining heave, and it came loose.

At the same moment an explosion echoed through the corridor at my back,and more shouts rang through the air. Either O'Bryant or the mob hadbegun to shoot. Then a rending crash shook the building, and I heardone of the councilmen shouting: "Another like that and the door will bedown!"

His words inspired additional speed within me. I took the loose endof the chain in my hand. Its links were of twisted iron, and the finalone had been sawed through to admit the loop of the screw-plate, thenclamped tight again. But my frantic tugging had widened this narrowcut once more, and quickly I freed it from the dangling plate. Then,folding the bunk against the wall, I drew the chain upward. It wouldjust reach to the window—that open link would hook around one of theflat bars.

The noise of breakage rang louder in the front of the building. Oncemore I heard the voice of the short councilman: "I command you all togo home, before Constable O'Bryant fires on you again!"

"We got guns, too!" came back a defiant shriek, and in proof of thisstatement came a rattle of shots. I heard an agonized moan, and thevoice of the minister: "Are you hit?"

"In the shoulder," was O'Bryant's deep, savage reply.

My chain fast to the bar, I pulled back and down on the edge of thebunk. It gave some leverage, but not enough—the bar was fastened toosolidly. Desperate, I clambered upon the iron framework. Gaining thesill, I moved sidewise, then turned and braced my back against thewall. With my feet against the edge of the bunk, I thrust it away withall the strength in both my legs. A creak and a ripping sound, and thebar pulled slowly out from its bolts.

But a roar and thunder of feet told me that the throng outside hadgained entrance to the hall at last.

I heard a last futile flurry of protesting cries from the councilmenas the steps echoed with the charge of many heavy boots. I waited nolonger, but swung myself to the sill and wriggled through the narrowspace where the bar had come out. A lapel of my jacket tore againstthe frame, but I made it. Clinging by the other bar, I made out at myside a narrow band of perpendicular darkness against the wall, andclutched at it. It was a tin drainpipe, by the feel of it.

An attack was being made upon the door of the cell. The wood splinteredbefore a torrent of blows, and I heard people pushing in.

"He's gone!" yelled a rough voice, and, a moment later: "Hey, look atthe window!"

I had hold of the drainpipe, and gave it my entire weight. Next instantit had torn loose from its flimsy supports and bent sickeninglyoutward. Yet it did not let me down at once, acting rather as a slendersapling to the top of which an adventuresome boy has sprung. Stillholding to it, I fell sprawling in the snow twenty feet beneath thewindow I had quitted. Somebody shouted from above and a gun spoke.

"Get him!" screamed many voices. "Get him, you down below!"

But I was up and running for my life. The snow-filled square seemedto whip away beneath my feet. Dodging around the war memorial, I cameface to face with somebody in a bearskin coat. He shouted for me tohalt, in the reedy voice of an ungrown lad, and the fierce-set facethat shoved at me had surely never felt a razor. But I, who dared notbe merciful even to so untried an enemy, struck with both fists even asI hurtled against him. He whimpered and dropped, and I, springing overhis falling body, dashed on.

A wind was rising, and it bore to me the howls of my pursuers fromthe direction of the hall. Two or three more guns went off, and onebullet whickered over my head. By then I had reached the far side ofthe square, hurried across the street and up an alley. The snow, stillfalling densely, served to baffle the men who ran shouting in my wake.Too, nearly everyone who had been on the streets had gone to the frontof the hall, and except for the boy at the memorial none offered toturn me back.

I came out upon a street beyond the square, quiet and ill-lit. Alongthis way, I remembered, I could approach the Gird home, where myautomobile was parked. Once at the wheel, I could drive to the countyseat and demand protection from the sheriff. But, as I came cautiouslynear the place and could see through the blizzard the outline of thecar, I heard loud voices. A part of the mob had divined my intent andhad branched off to meet me.

I ran down a side street, but they had seen me. "There he is!" theyshrieked at one another. "Plug him!" Bullets struck the wall of a houseas I fled past it, and the owner, springing to the door with an angryprotest, joined the chase a moment later.

I was panting and staggering by now, and so were most of my pursuers.Only three or four, lean young athletes, were gaining and coming evenclose to my heels. With wretched determination I maintained my pace,winning free of the close-set houses of the town, wriggling between therails of a fence and striking off through the drifting snow of a field.

"Hey, he's heading for the Croft!" someone was wheezing, not far behind.

"Let him go in," growled another runner. "He'll wish he hadn't."

Yet again someone fired, and yet again the bullet went wide of me;moving swiftly, and half veiled by the dark and the wind-tossedsnowfall, I was a bad target that night. And, lifting my head, I sawindeed the dense timber of the Devil's Croft, its tops seeming to tossand fall like the black waves of a high-pent sea.

It was an inspiration, helped by the shouts of the mob. Nobody wentinto that grove—avoidance of it had become a community habit, almosta community instinct. Even if my enemies paused only temporarily Icould shelter well among the trunks, catch my breath, perhaps hideindefinitely. And surely Zoberg would be recovered, would back up myprotest of innocence. With two words for it, the fantasy would not seemso ridiculous. All this I sorted over in my mind as I ran toward theDevil's Croft.

Another rail fence rose in my way. I feared for a moment that it wouldbaffle me, so fast and far had I run and so greatly drained away was mystrength. Yet I scrambled over somehow, slipped and fell beyond, got upand ran crookedly on. The trees were close now. Closer. Within a dozenyards. Behind me I heard oaths and warning exclamations. The pursuitwas ceasing at last.

I found myself against close-set evergreens; that would be the hedgeof which Susan Gird had told me. Pushing between and through theinterlaced branches, I hurried on for five or six steps, cannoned froma big tree-trunk, went sprawling, lifted myself for another brief runand then, with my legs like strips of paper, dropped once more. Icrept forward on hands and knees. Finally I collapsed upon my face.The weight of all I had endured—the séance, the horrible death ofJohn Gird, my arrest, my breaking from the cell and my wild run forlife—overwhelmed me as I lay.

Thus I must lie, I told myself hazily, until they came and caught me. Iheard, or fancied I heard, movement near by, then a trilling whistle. Asignal? It sounded like the song of a little frog. Odd thought in thisblizzard. I was thinking foolishly of frogs, while I sprawled face downin the snow....

But where was the snow?

There was damp underneath, but it was warm damp, like that of ariverside in July. In my nostrils was a smell of green life, the smellof parks and hot-houses. My fists closed upon something.

Two handfuls of soft, crisp moss!

I rose to my elbows. A white flower bobbed and swayed before my nose,shedding perfume upon me.

Far away, as though in another world, I heard the rising of the windthat was beating the snow into great drifts—but that was outside theDevil's Croft.

6. "Eyes of Fire!"

It proves something for human habit and narcotic-dependence that myfirst action upon rising was to pull out a cigarette and light it.

The match flared briefly upon rich greenness. I might have been in asub-tropical swamp. Then the little flame winked out and the only glowwas the tip of my cigarette. I gazed upward for a glimpse of the sky,but found only darkness. Leafy branches made a roof over me. My browfelt damp. It was sweat—warm sweat.

I held the coal of the cigarette to my wrist-watch. It seemed to havestopped, and I lifted it to my ear. No ticking—undoubtedly I hadjammed it into silence, perhaps at the séance, perhaps during my escapefrom prison and the mob. The hands pointed to eighteen minutes pasteight, and it was certainly much later than that. I wished for theelectric torch that I had dropped in the dining-room at Gird's, thenwas glad I had not brought it to flash my position to possible watchersoutside the grove.

Yet the tight cedar hedge and the inner belts of trees and bushes,richly foliaged as they must be, would certainly hide me and any lightI might make. I felt considerably stronger in body and will by now, andmade shift to walk gropingly toward the center of the timber-clump.Once, stooping to finger the ground on which I walked, I felt not onlymoss but soft grass. Again, a hanging vine dragged across my face. Itwas wet, as if from condensed mist, and it bore sweet flowers thatshowed dimly like little pallid trumpets in the dark.

The frog-like chirping that I had heard when first I fell had beengoing on without cessation. It was much nearer now, and when I turnedin its direction, I saw a little glimmer of water. Two more carefulsteps, and my foot sank into wet, warm mud. I stooped and put a handinto a tiny stream, almost as warm as the air. The frog, whose home Iwas disturbing, fell silent once more.

I struck a match, hoping to see a way across. The stream was not morethan three feet in width, and it flowed slowly from the interior of thegrove. In that direction hung low mists, through which broad leavesgleamed wetly. On my side its brink was fairly clear, but on the othergrew lush, dripping bushes. I felt in the stream once more, and foundit was little more than a finger deep. Then, holding the end of thematch in my fingers, I stooped as low as possible, to see what I couldof the nature of the ground beneath the bushes.

The small beam carried far, and I let myself think of Shakespeare'sphilosophy anent the candle and the good deed in a naughty world. Thenphilosophy and Shakespeare flew from my mind, for I saw beneath thebushes the feet of—of what stood behind them.

They were two in number, those feet; but not even at first glimpsedid I think they were human. I had an impression of round pedestalsand calfless shanks, dark and hairy. They moved as I looked, movedcautiously closer, as if their owner was equally anxious to see me. Idropped the match into the stream and sprang up and back.

No pursuer from the town would have feet like that.

My heart began to pound as it had never pounded during my race forlife. I clutched at the low limb of a tree, hoping to tear it loose fora possible weapon of defense; the wood was rotten, and almost crumpledin my grasp.

"Who's there?" I challenged, but most unsteadily and without muchmenace in my voice. For answer the bushes rustled yet again, andsomething blacker than they showed itself among them.

I cannot be ashamed to say that I retreated again, farther this time;let him who has had a like experience decide whether to blame me.Feeling my way among the trees, I put several stout stems between meand that lurker by the water-side. They would not fence it off, butmight baffle it for a moment. Meanwhile, I heard the water splash. Itwas wading cautiously through—it was going to follow me.

I found myself standing in a sort of lane, and did not bother untillater to wonder how a lane could exist in that grove where no man everwalked. It was a welcome avenue of flight to me, and I went along itat a swift, crouching run. The footing, as everywhere, was damp andmossy, and I made very little noise. Not so my unchancy companion ofthe brook, for I heard a heavy body crashing among twigs and branchesto one side. I began to ask myself, as I hurried, what the beast couldbe—for I was sure that it was a beast. A dog from some farmhouse, thatdid not know or understand the law against entering the Devil's Croft?That I had seen only two feet did not preclude two more, I now assuredmyself, and I would have welcomed a big, friendly dog. Yet I did notknow that this one was friendly, and could not bid myself to stop andsee.

The lane wound suddenly to the right, and then into a clearing.

Here, too, the branches overhead kept out the snow and the light,but things were visible ever so slightly. I stood as if in a room,earth-floored, trunk-walled, leaf-thatched. And I paused for abreath—it was more damply warm than ever. With that breath came somestrange new serenity of spirit, even an amused self-mockery. What had Iseen and heard, indeed? I had come into the grove after a terrific houror so of danger and exertion, and my mind had at once busied itselfin building grotesque dangers where no dangers could be. Have anothersmoke, I said to myself, and get hold of your imagination; already thatpursuit-noise you fancied has gone. Alone in the clearing and the dark,I smiled as though to mock myself back into self-confidence. Even thislittle patch of summer night into which I had blundered from the heartof the blizzard—even it had some good and probably simple explanation.I fished out a cigarette and struck a light.

At that moment I was facing the bosky tunnel from which I had emergedinto the open space. My matchlight struck two sparks in that tunnel,two sparks that were pushing stealthily toward me. Eyes of fire!

Cigarette and match fell from my hands. For one wild half-instant Ithought of flight, then knew with a throat-stopping certainty that Imust not turn my back on this thing. I planted my feet and clenched myfists.

"Who's there?" I cried, as once before at the side of the brook.

This time I had an answer. It was a hoarse, deep-chested rumble, itmight have been a growl or an oath. And a shadow stole out from thelane, straightening up almost within reach of me.

I had seen that silhouette before, misshapen and point-eared, in thedining-room of John Gird.

7. "Had the Thing Been So Hairy?"

It did not charge at once, or I might have been killed then, like JohnGird, and the writing of this account left to another hand. While itclosed cautiously in, I was able to set myself for defense. I also madeout some of its details, and hysterically imagined more.

Its hunched back and narrow shoulders gave nothing of weakness to itsappearance, suggesting rather an inhuman plenitude of bone and musclebehind. At first it was crouched, as if on all-fours, but then itreared. For all its legs were bent, its great length of body made itconsiderably taller than I. Upper limbs—I hesitate at calling themarms—sparred questingly at me.

I moved a stride backward, but kept my face to the enemy.

"You killed Gird!" I accused it, in a voice steady enough but ratherstrained and shrill. "Come on and kill me! I promise you a damned hardbargain of it."

The creature shrank away in turn, as though it understood the words andwas momentarily daunted by them. Its head, which I could not make out,sank low before those crooked shoulders and swayed rhythmically likethe head of a snake before striking. The rush was coming, and I knew it.

"Come on!" I dared it again. "What are you waiting for? I'm not chaineddown, like Gird. I'll give you a devil of a fight."

I had my fists up and I feinted, boxer-wise, with a little weaving jerkof the knees. The blot of blackness started violently, ripped out asnarl from somewhere inside it, and sprang at me.

I had an impression of paws flung out and a head twisted sidewise, withlong teeth bared to snap at my throat. Probably it meant to clutch myshoulders with its fingers—it had them, I had felt them on my knee atthe séance. But I had planned my own campaign in those tense seconds. Islid my left foot forward as the enemy lunged, and my left fist drovefor the muzzle. My knuckles barked against the huge, inhuman teeth, andI brought over a roundabout right, with shoulder and hip driving inback of it. The head, slanted as it was, received this right fist highon the brow. I felt the impact of solid bone, and the body flounderedaway to my left. I broke ground right, turned and raised my hands asbefore.

"Want any more of the same?" I taunted it, as I would a humanantagonist after scoring.

The failure of its attack had been only temporary. My blows had set itoff balance, but could hardly have been decisive. I heard a coughingsnort, as though the thing's muzzle was bruised, and it quarteredaround toward me once more. Without warning and with amazing speed itrushed.

I had no time to set myself now. I did try to leap backward, but Iwas not quick enough. It had me; gripping the lapels of my coat anddriving me down and over with its flying weight. I felt the wet groundspin under my heels, and then it came flying up against my shoulders.Instinctively I had clutched upward at a throat with my right hand,clutched a handful of skin, loose and rankly shaggy. My left, also byinstinct, flew backward to break my fall. It closed on something hard,round and smooth.

The rank odor that I had known at the séance was falling around me likea blanket, and the clashing white teeth shoved nearer, nearer. Butthe rock in my left hand spelled sudden hope. Without trying to rollout from under, I smote with that rock. My clutch on the hairy throathelped me to judge accurately where the head would be. A moment later,and the struggling bulk above me went limp under the impact. Shoving itaside, I scrambled free and gained my feet once more.

The monster lay motionless where I had thrust it from me. Every nervea-tingle, I stooped. My hand poised the rock for another smashing blow,but there was no sign of fight from the fallen shape. I could hear onlya gusty breathing, as of something in stunned pain.

"Lie right where you are, you murdering brute," I cautioned it, myvoice ringing exultant as I realized I had won. "If you move, I'llsmash your skull in."

My right hand groped in my pocket for a match, struck it on the back ofmy leg. I bent still closer for a clear look at my enemy.

Had the thing been so hairy? Now, as I gazed, it seemed only sparselyfurred. The ears, too, were blunter than I thought, and the muzzle notso——

Why, it was half human! Even as I watched, it was becoming more humanstill, a sprawled human figure! And, as the fur seemed to vanish inpatches, was it clothing I saw, as though through the rents in abearskin overcoat?

My senses churned in my own head. The fear that had ridden me all nightbecame suddenly unreasoning. I fled as before, this time without athought of where I was going or what I would do. The forbidden grove,lately so welcome as a refuge, swarmed with evil. I reached the edgeof the clearing, glanced back once. The thing I had stricken down wasbeginning to stir, to get up. I ran from it as from a devil.

Somehow I had come to the stream again, or to another like it. Thecurrent moved more swiftly at this point, with a noticeable murmur. AsI tried to spring across I landed short, and gasped in sudden pain, forthe water was scalding hot. Of such are the waters of hell....

I cannot remember my flight through that steaming swamp that might havebeen a corner of Satan's own park. Somewhere along the way I found atough, fleshy stem, small enough to rend from its rooting and wieldas a club. With it in my hand I paused, with a rather foolish desireto return along my line of retreat for another and decisive encounterwith the shaggy being. But what if it would foresee my coming and liein wait? I knew how swiftly it could spring, how strong was its grasp.Once at close quarters, my club would be useless, and those teeth mightfind their objective. I cast aside the impulse, that had welled from Iknow not what primitive core of me, and hurried on.

Evergreens were before me on a sudden, and through them filtered ablast of cold air. The edge of the grove, and beyond it the snow andthe open sky, perhaps a resumption of the hunt by the mob; but captureand death at their hands would be clean and welcome compared to——

Feet squelched in the dampness behind me.

I pivoted with a hysterical oath, and swung up my club in readiness tostrike. The great dark outline that had come upon me took one stepcloser, then paused. I sprang at it, struck and missed as it dodged toone side.

"All right then, let's have it out," I managed to blurt, though myvoice was drying up in my throat. "Come on, show your face."

"I'm not here to fight you," a good-natured voice assured me. "Why, Iseldom even argue, except with proven friends."

I relaxed a trifle, but did not lower my club. "Who are you?"

"Judge Keith Pursuivant," was the level response, as though I had notjust finished trying to kill him. "You must be the young man they're soanxious to hang, back in town. Is that right?"

I made no answer.

"Silence makes admission," the stranger said. "Well, come along to myhouse. This grove is between it and town, and nobody will bother us forthe night, at least."

8. "A Trick that Almost Killed You."

When I stepped into the open with Judge Keith Pursuivant, the snowhad ceased and a full moon glared through a rip in the clouds, makingdiamond dust of the sugary drifts. By its light I saw my companionwith some degree of plainness—a man of great height and girth, witha wide black hat and a voluminous gray ulster. His face was as roundas the moon itself, at least as shiny, and much warmer to look at. Abroad bulbous nose and broad bulbous eyes beamed at me, while under adrooping blond mustache a smile seemed to be lurking. Apparently heconsidered the situation a pleasant one.

"I'm not one of the mob," he informed me reassuringly. "These pastimesof the town do not attract me. I left such things behind when Idropped out of politics and practise—oh, I was active in such things,ten years ago up North—and took up meditation."

"I've heard that you keep to yourself," I told him.

"You heard correctly. My black servant does the shopping and brings methe gossip. Most of the time it bores me, but not today, when I learnedabout you and the killing of John Gird——"

"And you came looking for me?"

"Of course. By the way, that was a wise impulse, ducking into theDevil's Croft."

But I shuddered, and not with the chill of the outer night. He made amotion for me to come along, and we began tramping through the softsnow toward a distant light under the shadow of a hill. Meanwhile Itold him something of my recent adventures, saving for the last mystruggle with the monster in the grove.

He heard me through, whistling through his teeth at various points. Atthe end of my narrative he muttered to himself:

"The hairy ones shall dance——"

"What was that, sir?" I broke in, without much courtesy.

"I was quoting from the prophet Isaiah. He was speaking of ruinedBabylon, not a strange transplanted bit of the tropics, but otherwiseit falls pat. Suggestive of a demon-festival. 'The hairy ones shalldance there.'"

"Isaiah, you say? I used to be something of a Bible reader, but I'mafraid I don't remember the passage."

He smiled sidewise at me. "But I'm translating direct from theoriginal, Mr.—Wills is the name, eh? The original Hebrew of theprophet Isaiah, whoever he was. The classic-ridden compilers of theKing James Version have satyrs dancing, and the prosaic Revised Versionoffers nothing more startling than goats. But Isaiah and the rest ofthe ancient peoples knew that there were 'hairy ones.' Perhaps youencountered one of that interesting breed tonight."

"I don't want to encounter it a second time," I confessed, and again Ishuddered.

"That is something we will talk over more fully. What do you think ofthe Turkish bath accommodations you have just left behind?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't know what to think. Growing green stuffand a tropical temperature, with snow outside——"

He waved the riddle away. "Easily and disappointingly explained, Mr.Wills. Hot springs."

I stopped still, shin-deep in wet snow. "What!" I ejacul*ted.

"Oh, I've been there many times, in defiance of local custom andlaw—I'm not a native, you see." Once more his warming smile. "Thereare at least three springs, and the thick growth of trees makes anatural enclosure, roof and walls, to hold in the damp heat. It's notthe only place of its kind in the world, Mr. Wills. But the thingyou met there is a trifle more difficult of explanation. Come onhome—we'll both feel better when we sit down."

We finished the journey in half an hour. Judge Pursuivant's housewas stoutly made of heavy hewn timbers, somewhat resembling certainlodges I had seen in England. Inside was a large, low-ceilinged roomwith a hanging oil lamp and a welcome open fire. A fat blond cat cameleisurely forward to greet us. Its broad, good-humored face, large eyesand drooping whiskers gave it somewhat of a resemblance to its master.

"Better get your things off," advised the judge. He raised his voice."William!"

A squat negro with a sensitive brown face appeared from a door at theback of the house.

"Bring in a bathrobe and slippers for this gentleman," ordered JudgePursuivant, and himself assisted me to take off my muddy jacket.Thankfully I peeled off my other garments, and when the servantappeared with the robe I slid into it with a sigh.

"I'm in your hands, Judge Pursuivant," I said. "If you want to turn meover——"

"I might surrender you to an officer," he interrupted, "but never to alawless mob. You'd better sit here for a time—and talk to me."

Near the fire was a desk, with an arm-chair at either side of it. Wetook seats, and when William returned from disposing of my wet clothes,he brought along a tray with a bottle of whisky, a siphon and someglasses. The judge prepared two drinks and handed one to me. At hisinsistence, I talked for some time about the séance and the eventsleading up to it.

"Remarkable," mused Judge Pursuivant. Then his great shrewd eyesstudied me. "Don't go to sleep there, Mr. Wills. I know you're tired,but I want to talk lycanthropy."

"Lycanthropy?" I repeated. "You mean the science of the werewolf?" Ismiled and shook my head. "I'm afraid I'm no authority, sir. Anyway,this was no witchcraft—it was a bona fide spirit séance, withectoplasm."

"Hum!" snorted the judge. "Witchcraft, spiritism! Did it ever occur toyou that they might be one and the same thing?"

"Inasmuch as I never believed in either of them, it never did occur tome."

Judge Pursuivant finished his drink and wiped his mustache. "Skepticismdoes not become you too well, Mr. Wills, if you will pardon myfrankness. In any case, you saw something very werewolfish indeed, notan hour ago. Isn't that the truth?"

"It was some kind of a trick," I insisted stubbornly.

"A trick that almost killed you and made you run for your life?"

I shook my head. "I know I saw the thing," I admitted. "I even feltit." My eyes dropped to the bruised knuckles of my right hand. "Yet Iwas fooled—as a magician, I know all about fooling. There can be nosuch thing as a werewolf."

"Have a drink," coaxed Judge Pursuivant, exactly as if I had had noneyet. With big, deft hands he poured whisky, then soda, into my glassand gave the mixture a stirring shake. "Now then," he continued,sitting back in his chair once more, "the time has come to speak ofmany things."

He paused, and I, gazing over the rim of that welcome glass, thoughthow much he looked like a rosy blond walrus.

"I'm going to show you," he announced, "that a man can turn into abeast, and back again."

9. "To a Terrified Victim He Is Doom Itself."

He leaned toward the bookshelf beside him, pawed for a moment, thenlaid two sizable volumes on the desk between us.

"If this were a fantasy tale, Mr. Wills," he said with a hint of oneof his smiles, "I would place before you an unthinkably rare book—onethat offered, in terms too brilliant and compelling for argument, theawful secrets of the universe, past, present and to come."

He paused to polish a pair of pince-nez and to clamp them upon thebridge of his broad nose.

"However," he resumed, "this is reality, sober if uneasy. And I giveyou, not some forgotten grimoire out of the mystic past, but two worksby two recognized and familiar authorities."

I eyed the books. "May I see?"

For answer he thrust one of them, some six hundred pages in darkblue cloth, across the desk and into my hands. "Thirty Years ofPsychical Research, by the late Charles Richet, French master inthe spirit-investigation field," he informed me. "Faithfully andinterestingly translated by Stanley De Brath. Published here inAmerica, in 1923."

I took the book and opened it. "I knew Professor Richet, slightly.Years ago, when I was just beginning this sort of thing, I wasentertained by him in London. He introduced me to Conan Doyle."

"Then you're probably familiar with his book. Yes? Well, the other,"and he took up the second volume, almost as large as the Richetand bound in light buff, "is by Montague Summers, whom I call thepremier demonologist of today. He's gathered all the lycanthropy-loreavailable."

I had read Mr. Summers' Geography of Witchcraft and his two essays onthe vampire, and I made bold to say so.

"This is a companion volume to them," Judge Pursuivant told me, openingthe book. "It is called The Werewolf." He scrutinized the flyleaf."Published in 1934—thoroughly modern, you see. Here's a bit of Latin,Mr. Wills: Intrabunt lupi rapaces in vos, non parcentes gregi."

I crinkled my brow in the effort to recall my high school Latin, thenbegan slowly to translate, a word at a time: "'Enter hungry wolves——'"

"Save that scholarship," Judge Pursuivant broke in. "It's more earlyScripture, though not so early as the bit about the hairy ones—vulgatefor a passage from the Acts of the Apostles, twentieth chapter,twenty-ninth verse. 'Ravenous wolves shall enter among you, not sparingthe flock.' Apparently that disturbing possibility exists even today."

He leafed through the book. "Do you know," he asked, "that Summersgives literally dozens of instances of lycanthropy, things that arepositively known to have happened?"

I took another sip of whisky and water. "Those are only legends,surely."

"They are nothing of the sort!" The judge's eyes protruded even more inhis earnestness, and he tapped the pages with an excited forefinger."There are four excellent cases listed in his chapter on Francealone—sworn to, tried and sentenced by courts——"

"But weren't they during the Middle Ages?" I suggested.

He shook his great head. "No, during the Sixteenth Century, the peakof the Renaissance. Oh, don't smile at the age, Mr. Wills. It producedShakespeare, Bacon, Montaigne, Galileo, Leonardo, Martin Luther;Descartes and Spinoza were its legitimate children, and Voltairebuilded upon it. Yet werewolves were known, seen, convicted——"

"Convicted on what grounds?" I interrupted quickly, for I was beginningto reflect his warmth.

For answer he turned more pages. "Here is the full account of the caseof Stubbe Peter, or Peter Stumpf," he said. "A contemporary record,telling of Stumpf's career in and out of wolf-form, his capture in thevery act of shifting shape, his confession and execution—all nearCologne in the year 1589. Listen."

He read aloud: "'Witnesses that this is true. Tyse Artyne. WilliamBrewar. Adolf Staedt. George Bores. With divers others that have seenthe same.'" Slamming the book shut, he looked up at me, the twinklecoming back into his spectacled eyes. "Well, Mr. Wills? How do thosenames sound to you?"

"Why, like the names of honest German citizens."

"Exactly. Honest, respectable, solid. And their testimony is hard topass off with a laugh, even at this distance in time, eh?"

He had almost made me see those witnesses, leather-jerkined andbroad-breeched, with heavy jaws and squinting eyes, taking their turnat the quill pen with which they set their names to that bizarredocument. "With divers others that have seen the same"—perhaps toofrightened to hold pen or make signature....

"Still," I said slowly, "Germany of the Renaissance, the SixteenthCentury; and there have been so many changes since."

"Werewolves have gone out of fashion, you mean? Ah, you admitthat they might have existed." He fairly beamed his triumph. "Sohave beards gone out of fashion, but they will sprout again if welay down our razors. Let's go at it another way. Let's talk aboutmaterialization—ectoplasm—for the moment." He relaxed, and across hisgreat girth his fingertips sought one another. "Suppose you explain,briefly and simply, what ectoplasm is considered to be."

I was turning toward the back of Richet's book. "It's in here, JudgePursuivant. To be brief and simple, as you say, certain mediumsapparently exude an unclassified material called ectoplasm. This, atfirst light and vaporescent, becomes firm and takes shape, either uponthe body of the medium or as a separate and living creature."

"And you don't believe in this phenomenon?" he prompted, with somethingof insistence.

"I have never said that I didn't," I replied truthfully, "even beforemy experience of this evening went so far toward convincing me. But,with the examples I have seen, I felt that true scientific control waslacking. With all their science, most of the investigators trust toogreatly."

Judge Pursuivant shook with gentle laughter. "They are doctors forthe most part, and this honesty of theirs is a professional failingthat makes them look for it in others. You—begging your pardon—are amagician, a professional deceiver, and you expect trickery in all whomyou meet. Perhaps a good lawyer with trial experience, with a levelhead and a sense of competent material evidence for both sides, shouldattend these séances, eh?"

"You're quite right," I said heartily.

"But, returning to the subject, what else can be said about ectoplasm?That is, if it actually exists."

I had found in Richet's book the passage for which I had beensearching. "It says here that bits of ectoplasm have been securedin rare instances, and that some of these have been examinedmicroscopically. There were traces of fatty tissue, bacterial forms andepithelium."

"Ah! Those were the findings of Schrenck-Notzing. A sound man anda brilliant one, hard to corrupt or fool. It makes ectoplasm soundorganic, does it not?"

I nodded agreement, and my head felt heavy, as if full of sober andimportant matters. "As for me," I went on, "I never have had muchchance to examine the stuff. Whenever I get hold of an ectoplasmichand, it melts like butter."

"They generally do," the judge commented, "or so the reports say. Yetthey themselves are firm and strong when they touch or seize."

"Right, sir."

"It's when attacked, or even frightened, as with a camera flashlight,that the ectoplasm vanishes or is reabsorbed?" he prompted further.

"So Richet says here," I agreed once more, "and so I have found."

"Very good. Now," and his manner took on a flavor of the legal, "Ishall sum up:

"Ectoplasm is put forth by certain spirit mediums, who are mysteriouslyadapted for it, under favorable conditions that include darkness,quiet, self-confidence. It takes form, altering the appearance ofthe medium or making up a separate body. It is firm and strong, butvanishes when attacked or frightened. Right so far, eh?"

"Right," I approved.

"Now, for the word medium substitute wizard." His grin burstout again, and he began to mix a third round of drinks. "A wizard,having darkness and quiet and being disposed to change shape, exudes amaterial that gives him a new shape and character. Maybe it is bestial,to match a fierce or desperate spirit within. There may be a shaggypelt, a sharp muzzle, taloned paws and rending fangs. To a terrifiedvictim he is doom itself. But to a brave adversary, facing and fightinghim——"

He flipped his way through Summers' book, as I had with Richet's."Listen: '... the shape of the werewolf will be removed if he bereproached by name as a werewolf, or if again he be thrice addressedby his Christian name, or struck three blows on the forehead with aknife, or that three drops of blood should be drawn.' Do you see theparallels, man? Shouted at, bravely denounced, or slightly wounded,his false beast-substance fades from him." He flung out his hands, asthough appealing to a jury. "I marvel nobody ever thought of it before."

"But nothing so contrary to nature has a natural explanation," Iobjected, and very idiotic the phrase sounded in my own ears.

He laughed, and I could not blame him. "I'll confound you with anotherof your own recent experiences. What could seem more contrary to naturethan the warmth and greenness of the inside of Devil's Croft? And whatis more simply natural than the hot springs that make it possible?"

"Yet, an envelope of bestial*ty, beast-muzzle on human face, beast-pawson human hands——"

"I can support that by more werewolf-lore. I don't even have to openSummers, everyone has heard the story. A wolf attacks a traveler, whowith his sword lops off a paw. The beast howls and flees, and the pawit leaves behind is a human hand."

"That's an old one, in every language."

"Probably because it happened so often. There's your human hand, withthe beast-paw forming upon and around it, then vanishing like woundedectoplasm. Where's the weak point, Wills? Name it, I challenge you."

I felt the glass shake in my hand, and a chilly wind brushed my spine."There's one point," I made myself say. "You may think it a slenderone, even a quibble. But ectoplasms make human forms, not animal."

"How do you know they don't make animal forms?" Judge Pursuivantcrowed, leaning forward across the deck. "Because, of the few you'veseen and disbelieved, only human faces and bodies showed? My reply isthere in your hands. Open Richet's book to page 545, Mr. Wills. Page545 ... got it? Now, the passage I marked, about the medium Burgik.Read it aloud."

He sank back into his chair once more, waiting in manifest delight. Ifound the place, underscored with pencil, and my voice was hoarse as Iobediently read:

"'My trouser leg was strongly pulled and a strange, ill-defined formthat seemed to have paws like those of a dog or small monkey climbedon my knee. I could feel its weight, very light, and something likethe muzzle of an animal touched my cheek.'"

"There you are, Wills," Judge Pursuivant was crying. "Notice that ithappened in Warsaw, close to the heart of the werewolf country. Hmmm,reading that passage made you sweat a bit—remembering what you saw inthe Devil's Croft, eh?"

I flung down the book.

"You've done much toward convincing me," I admitted. "I'd rather havethe superstitious peasant's belief, though, the one I've always scoffedat."

"Rationalizing the business didn't help, then? It did when I explainedthe Devil's Croft and the springs."

"But the springs don't chase you with sharp teeth. And, as I wassaying, the peasant had a protection that the scientist lacks—trust inhis crucifix and his Bible."

"Why shouldn't he have that trust, and why shouldn't you?" Again thejudge was rummaging in his book-case. "Those symbols of faith gave himwhat is needed, a strong heart to drive back the menace, whether it bewolf-demon or ectoplasmic bogy. Here, my friend."

He laid a third book on the desk. It was a Bible, red-edged andleather-backed, worn from much use.

"Have a read at that while you finish your drink," he advised me. "TheGospel According to St. John is good, and it's already marked. Playyou're a peasant, hunting for comfort."

Like a dutiful child I opened the Bible to where a faded purple ribbonlay between the pages. But already Judge Pursuivant was quoting frommemory:

"'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and theWord was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things weremade by him; and without him was not anything made that was made....'"

10. "Blood-lust and Compassion."

It may seem incredible that later in the night I slept like a dead pig;yet I had reason.

First of all there was the weariness that had followed my dangersand exertions; then Judge Pursuivant's whisky and logic combined toreassure me; finally, the leather couch in his study, its surfacecomfortably hollowed by much reclining thereon, was a sedative initself. He gave me two quilts, very warm and very light, and left mealone. I did not stir until a rattle of breakfast dishes awakened me.

William, the judge's servant, had carefully brushed my clothes. Myshoes also showed free of mud, though they still felt damp and clammy.The judge himself furnished me with a clean shirt and socks, both itemsvery loose upon me, and lent me his razor.

"Some friends of yours called during the night," he told me dryly.

"Friends?"

"Yes, from the town. Five of them, with ropes and guns. They announcedvery definitely that they intended to decorate the flagpole in thepublic square with your corpse. There was also some informal talkabout drinking your blood. We may have vampires as well as werewolveshereabouts."

I almost cut my lip with the razor. "How did you get rid of them?" Iasked quickly. "They must have followed my tracks."

"Lucky there was more snow after we got in," he replied, "and they camehere only as a routine check-up. They must have visited every housewithin miles. Oh, turning them away was easy. I feigned wild enthusiasmfor the manhunt, and asked if I couldn't come along."

He smiled reminiscently, his mustache stirring like a rather genialblond snake.

"Then what?" I prompted him, dabbing on more lather.

"Why, they were delighted. I took a rifle and spent a few hours onthe trail. You weren't to be found at all, so we returned to town.Excitement reigns there, you can believe."

"What kind of excitement?"

"Blood-lust and compassion. Since Constable O'Bryant is wounded, hisyounger brother, a strong advocate of your immediate capture andexecution, is serving as a volunteer guardian of the peace. He's actingon an old appointment by his brother as deputy, to serve without pay.He told the council—a badly scared group—that he has sent for help tothe county seat, but I am sure he did nothing of the kind. Meanwhile,the Croft is surrounded by scouts, who hope to catch you sneaking outof it. And the women of the town are looking after Susan Gird and yourfriend, the Herr Doktor."

I had finished shaving. "How is Doctor Zoberg?" I inquired through thetowel.

"Still pretty badly shaken up. I tried to get in and see him, but itwas impossible. I understand he went out for a while, early in theevening, but almost collapsed. Just now he is completely surrounded bycooing old ladies with soup and herb tea. Miss Gird was feeling muchbetter, and talked to me for a while. I'm not really on warm termswith the town, you know; people think it's indecent for me to live outhere alone and not give them a chance to gossip about me. So I waspleasurably surprized to get a kind word from Miss Susan. She told me,very softly for fear someone might overhear, that she hopes you aren'tcaught. She is sure that you did not kill her father."

We went into his dining-room, where William offered pancakes, friedbacon and the strongest black coffee I ever tasted. In the midst of itall, I put down my fork and faced the judge suddenly. He grinned abovehis cup.

"Well, Mr. Wills? 'Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought'—all youneed is a sensitive hand clasped to your inspired brow."

"You said," I reminded him, "that Susan Gird is sure that I didn't killher father."

"So I did."

"She told you that herself. She also seemed calm, self-contained,instead of in mourning for——"

"Oh, come, come!" He paused to shift a full half-dozen cakes to hisplate and skilfully drenched them with syrup. "That's rather ungratefulof you, Mr. Wills, suspecting her of parricide."

"Did I say that?" I protested, feeling my ears turning bright red.

"You would have if I hadn't broken your sentence in the middle,"he accused, and put a generous portion of pancake into his mouth.As he chewed he twinkled at me through his pince-nez, and I feltunaccountably foolish.

"If Susan Gird had truly killed her father," he resumed, afterswallowing, "she would be more adroitly theatrical. She would weep,swear vengeance on his murderer, and be glad to hear that someone elsehad been accused of the crime. She would even invent details to helpincriminate that someone else."

"Perhaps she doesn't know that she killed him," I offered.

"Perhaps not. You mean that a new mind, as well as a new body, mayinvest the werewolf—or ectoplasmic medium—at time of change."

I jerked my head in agreement.

"Then Susan Gird, as she is normally, must be innocent. Come, Mr.Wills! Would you blame poor old Doctor Jekyll for the crimes of hisalter ego, Mr. Hyde?"

"I wouldn't want to live in the same house with Doctor Jekyll."

Judge Pursuivant burst into a roar of laughter, at which William,bringing fresh supplies from the kitchen, almost dropped his tray. "Soromance enters the field of psychic research!" the judge crowed at me.

I stiffened, outraged. "Judge Pursuivant, I certainly did not——"

"I know, you didn't say it, but again I anticipated you. So it's notthe thought of her possible unconscious crime, but the chance ofcomfortable companionship that perplexes you." He stopped laughingsuddenly. "I'm sorry, Wills. Forgive me. I shouldn't laugh at this, orindeed at any aspect of the whole very serious business."

I could hardly take real offense at the man who had rescued andsheltered me, and I said so. We finished breakfast, and he sought hisovercoat and wide hat.

"I'm off for town again," he announced. "There are one or two pointsto be settled there, for your safety and my satisfaction. Do you mindbeing left alone? There's an interesting lot of books in my study. Youmight like to look at a copy of Dom Calmet's Dissertations, if youread French; also a rather slovenly Wicked Bible, signed by PierreDe Lancre. J. W. Wickwar, the witchcraft authority, thinks that such athing does not exist, but I know of two others. Or, if you feel thatyou're having enough of demonology in real life, you will find a wholerow of light novels, including most of P. G. Wodehouse." He held outhis hand in farewell. "William will get you anything you want. There'stobacco and a choice of pipes on my desk. Whisky, too, though you don'tlook like the sort that drinks before noon."

With that he was gone, and I watched him from the window. He movedsturdily across the bright snow to a shed, slid open its door andentered. Soon there emerged a sedan, old but well-kept, with the judgeat the wheel. He drove away down a snow-filled road toward town.

I did not know what to envy most in him, his learning, his assurance orhis good-nature. The assurance, I decided once; then it occurred to methat he was in nothing like the awkward position I held. He was onlya sympathetic ally—but why was he that, even? I tried to analyze hismotives, and could not.

Sitting down in his study, I saw on the desk the Montague Summersbook on werewolves. It lay open at page 111, and my eyes lighted atonce upon a passage underscored in ink—apparently some time ago, forthe mark was beginning to rust a trifle. It included a quotation fromRestitution of Decayed Intelligence, written by Richard Rowlands in1605:

"... werewolves are certaine sorcerers, who hauvin annoynted theirbodyes, with an oyntment which they make by the instinct of the deuil;and putting on a certain inchanted girdel, do not only vnto the view ofothers seeme as wolues, but to their own thinking haue both the shapeand the nature of wolues, so long as they weare the said girdel. Andthey do dispose theselves as uery wolues, in wurryingand killing, and moste of humaine creatures."

This came to the bottom of the page, where someone, undoubtedlyPursuivant, had written: "Ointment and girdle sound as if they mighthave a scientific explanation." And, in the same script, but smaller,the following notes filled the margin beside:

That was quite enough lycanthropy for the present, so far as I wasconcerned. I drew a book of Mark Twain from the shelf—I seem toremember it as Tom Sawyer Abroad—and read all the morning. Nooncame, and I was about to ask the judge's negro servant for some lunch,when he appeared in the door of the study.

"Someone with a message, sah," he announced, and drew aside to admitSusan Gird.

I fairly sprang to my feet, dropping my book upon the desk. Sheadvanced slowly into the room, her pale face grave but friendly. I sawthat her eyes were darkly circled, and that her cheeks showed gaunt, asif with strain and weariness. She put out a hand, and I took it.

"A message?" I repeated William's words.

"Why, yes." She achieved a smile, and I was glad to see it, for bothour sakes. "Judge Pursuivant got me to one side and said for me to comehere. You and I are to talk the thing over."

"You mean, last night?" She nodded, and I asked further, "How did youget here?"

"Your car. I don't drive very well, but I managed."

I asked her to sit down and talk.

She told me that she remembered being in the parlor, with ConstableO'Bryant questioning me. At the time she had had difficulty rememberingeven the beginning of the séance, and it was not until I had been takenaway that she came to realize what had happened to her father. That, ofcourse, distressed and distracted her further, and even now the wholeexperience was wretchedly hazy to her.

"I do recall sitting down with you," she said finally, after I hadurged her for the twentieth time to think hard. "You chained me, yes,and Doctor Zoberg. Then yourself. Finally I seemed to float away, as ifin a dream. I'm not even sure about how long it was."

"Had the light been out very long?" I asked craftily.

"The light out?" she echoed, patently mystified. "Oh, of course. Thelight was turned out, naturally. I don't remember, but I suppose youattended to that."

"I asked to try you," I confessed. "I didn't touch the lamp until afteryou had seemed to drop off to sleep."

She did recall to memory her father's protest at his manacles, andDoctor Zoberg's gentle inquiry if she were ready. That was all.

"How is Doctor Zoberg?" I asked her.

"Not very well, I'm afraid. He was exhausted by the experience, ofcourse, and for a time seemed ready to break down. When the troublebegan about you—the crowd gathered at the town hall—he gathered hisstrength and went out, to see if he could help defend or rescue you. Hewas gone about an hour and then he returned, bruised about the face.Somebody of the mob had handled him roughly, I think. He's resting atour place now, with a hot compress on his eye."

"Good man!" I applauded. "At least he did his best for me."

She was not finding much pleasure in her memories, however, andI suggested a change of the subject. We had lunch together, eggsandwiches and coffee, then played several hands of casino. Tiring ofthat, we turned to the books and she read aloud to me from Keats. Neverhas The Eve of St. Agnes sounded better to me. Evening fell, and wewere preparing to take yet another meal—a meat pie, which Williamassured us was one of his culinary triumphs—when the door burst openand Judge Pursuivant came in.

"You've been together all the time?" he asked us at once.

"Why, yes," I said.

"Is that correct, Miss Susan? You've been in the house, every minute?"

"That is right," she seconded me.

"Then," said the judge. "You two are cleared, at least."

He paused, looking from Susan's questioning face to mine, then went on:

"That rending beast-thing in the Croft got another victim, not morethan half an hour ago. O'Bryant was feeling better, ready to get backon duty. His deputy-brother, anxious to get hold of Wills first, forglory or vengeance, ventured into the place, just at dusk. He came outin a little while, torn and bitten almost to pieces, and died as hebroke clear of the cedar hedge."

11. "To Meet that Monster Face to Face!"

I think that both Susan and I fairly reeled before this news, likeactors registering surprize in an old-fashioned melodrama. As for JudgePursuivant, he turned to the table, cut a generous wedge of the meatpie and set it, all savory and steaming, on a plate for himself. Hiscalm zest for the good food gave us others steadiness again, so that wesat down and even ate a little as he described his day in town.

He had found opportunity to talk to Susan in private, confiding in herabout me and finally sending her to me; this, as he said, so that wewould convince each other of our respective innocences. It was purelyan inspiration, for he had had no idea, of course, that such convictionwould turn out so final. Thereafter he made shift to enter the Girdhouse and talk to Doctor Zoberg.

That worthy he found sitting somewhat limply in the parlor, withJohn Gird's coffin in the next room. Zoberg, the judge reported,was mystified about the murder and anxious to bring to justice thetownsfolk—there were more than one, it seemed—who had beaten him.Most of all, however, he was concerned about the charges against me.

"His greatest anxiety is to prove you innocent," Judge Pursuivantinformed me. "He intends to bring the best lawyer possible for yourdefense, is willing even to assist in paying the fee. He also swearsthat character witnesses can be brought to testify that you are themost peaceable and law-abiding man in the country."

"That's mighty decent of him," I said. "According to your reasoning ofthis morning, his attitude proves him innocent, too."

"What reasoning was that?" asked Susan, and I was glad that the judgecontinued without answering her.

"I was glad that I had sent Miss Susan on. If your car had remainedthere, Mr. Wills, Doctor Zoberg might have driven off in it to rallyyour defenses."

"Not if I know him," I objected. "The whole business, what of themystery and occult significances, will hold him right on the spot. He'srelentlessly curious and, despite his temporary collapse, he's nocoward."

"I agree with that," chimed in Susan.

As for my pursuers of the previous night, the judge went on, they hadbeen roaming the snow-covered streets in twos and threes, heavily armedfor the most part and still determined to punish me for killing theirneighbor. The council was too frightened or too perplexed to deal withthe situation, and the constable was still in bed, with his brotherassuming authority, when Judge Pursuivant made his inquiries. The judgewent to see the wounded man, who very pluckily determined to rise andtake up his duties again.

"I'll arrest the man who plugged me," O'Bryant had promised grimly,"and that kid brother of mine can quit playing policeman."

The judge applauded these sentiments, and brought him hot food andwhisky, which further braced his spirits. In the evening came theinvasion by the younger O'Bryant of the Devil's Croft, and hisresultant death at the claws and teeth of what prowled there.

"His throat was so torn open and filled with blood that he could notspeak," the judge concluded, "but he pointed back into the timber, andthen tried to trace something in the snow with his finger. It lookedlike a wolf's head, with pointed nose and ears. He died before hefinished."

"You saw him come out?" I asked.

"No. I'd gone back to town, but later I saw the body, and the sketch inthe snow."

He finished his dinner and pushed back his chair. "Now," he saidheartily, "it's up to us."

"Up to us to do what?" I inquired.

"To meet that monster face to face," he replied. "There are three of usand, so far as I can ascertain, but one of the enemy." Both Susan andI started to speak, but he held up his hand, smiling. "I know withoutbeing reminded that the odds are still against us, because the oneenemy is fierce and blood-drinking, and can change shape and character.Maybe it can project itself to a distance—which makes it all theharder, both for us to face it and for us to get help."

"I know what you mean by that last," I nodded gloomily. "If there wereten thousand friendly constables in the neighborhood, instead of asingle hostile one, they wouldn't believe us."

"Right," agreed Judge Pursuivant. "We're like the group of perplexedmortals in Dracula, who had only their own wits and weapons against amonster no more forbidding than ours."

It is hard to show clearly how his constant offering of parallels andrationalizations comforted us. Only the unknown and unknowable canterrify completely. We three were even cheerful over a bottle of winethat William fetched and poured out in three glasses. Judge Pursuivantgave us a toast—"May wolves go hungry!"—and Susan and I drank itgladly.

"Don't forget what's on our side," said the judge, putting down hisglass. "I mean the stedfast and courageous heart, of which I preachedto Wills last night, and which we can summon from within us any timeand anywhere. The werewolf, dauntlessly faced, loses its dread; and Ithink we are the ones to face it. Now we're ready for action."

I said that I would welcome any kind of action whatsoever, and Susantouched my arm as if in endorsem*nt of the remark, Judge Pursuivant'sspectacles glittered in approval.

"You two will go into the Devil's Croft," he announced. "I'm going backto town once more."

"Into the Devil's Croft!" we almost shouted, both in the same shockedbreath.

"Of course. Didn't we just get through with the agreement all aroundthat the lycanthrope can and must be met face to face? Offense is thebest defense, as perhaps one hundred thousand athletic trainers havereiterated."

"I've already faced the creature once," I reminded him. "As forappearing dauntless, I doubt my own powers of deceit."

"You shall have a weapon," he said. "A fire gives light, and we knowthat such things must have darkness—such as it finds in the midst ofthat swampy wood. So fill your pockets with matches, both of you."

"How about a gun?" I asked, but he shook his head.

"We don't want the werewolf killed. That would leave the whole businessin mystery, and yourself probably charged with another murder. He'dreturn to his human shape, you know, the moment he was hurt evenslightly."

Susan spoke, very calmly: "I'm ready to go into the Croft, JudgePursuivant."

He clapped his hands loudly, as if applauding in a theater. "Bravo, mydear, bravo! I see Mr. Wills sets his jaw. That means he's ready to gowith you. Very well, let us be off."

He called to William, who at his orders brought three lanterns—sturdyold-fashioned affairs, protected by strong wire nettings—and filledthem with oil. We each took one and set out. It had turned clear andfrosty once more, and the moon shone too brightly for my comfort, atleast. However, as we approached the grove, we saw no sentinels; theycould hardly be blamed for deserting, after the fate of the youngerO'Bryant.

We gained the shadow of the outer cedars unchallenged. Here JudgePursuivant called a halt, produced a match from his overcoat pocketand lighted our lanterns all around. I remember that we strucka fresh light for Susan's lantern; we agreed that, silly as thethree-on-a-match superstition might be, this was no time or place totempt Providence.

"Come on," said Judge Pursuivant then, and led the way into the darkestpart of the immense thicket.

12. "We Are Here at His Mercy."

We followed Judge Pursuivant, Susan and I, without much of a thoughtbeyond an understandable dislike for being left alone on the brink ofthe timber. It was a slight struggle to get through the close-set cedarhedge, especially for Susan, but beyond it we soon caught up with thejudge. He strode heavily and confidently among the trees, his lanternheld high to shed light upon broad, polished leaves and thick, wetstems. The moist warmth of the grove's interior made itself felt again,and the judge explained again and at greater length the hot springsthat made possible this surprizing condition. All the while he keptgoing. He seemed to know his way in that forbidden fastness—indeed, hemust have explored it many times to go straight to his destination.

That destination was a clearing, in some degree like the one where Ihad met and fought with my hairy pursuer on the night before. Thisplace had, however, a great tree in its center, with branches that shotout in all directions to hide away the sky completely. By strainingthe ears one could catch a faint murmur of water—my scalding stream,no doubt. Around us were the thick-set trunks of the forest, filled inbetween with brush and vines, and underfoot grew velvety moss.

"This will be our headquarters position," said the judge. "Wills, helpme gather wood for a fire. Break dead branches from the standingtrees—never mind picking up wood from the ground, it will be too damp."

Together we collected a considerable heap and, crumpling a bit of paperin its midst, he kindled it.

"Now, then," he went on, "I'm heading for town. You two will stay hereand keep each other company."

He took our lanterns, blew them out and ran his left arm through theloops of their handles.

"I'm sure that nothing will attack you in the light of the fire. You'rebound to attract whatever skulks hereabouts, however. When I comeback, we ought to be prepared to go into the final act of our littlemelodrama."

He touched my hand, bowed to Susan, and went tramping away into thetimber. The thick leafa*ge blotted his lantern-light from our viewbefore his back had been turned twenty seconds.

Susan and I gazed at each other, and smiled rather uneasily.

"It's warm," she breathed, and took off her cloak. Dropping it upon oneof the humped roots of the great central tree, she sat down on it withher back to the trunk. "What kind of a tree is this?"

I gazed up at the gnarled stem, or as much of it as I could see in thefirelight. Finally I shook my head.

"I don't know—I'm no expert," I admitted. "At least it's very big, andundoubtedly very old—the sort of tree that used to mark a place ofsacrifice."

At the word "sacrifice," Susan lifted her shoulders as if in distaste."You're right, Talbot. It would be something grim and Druid-like." Shebegan to recite, half to herself:

"Macaulay," I said at once. Then, to get her mind off of morbid things,"I had to recite The Lays of Ancient Rome in school, when I was aboy. I wish you hadn't mentioned it."

"You mean, because it's an evil omen?" She shook her head, andcontrived a smile that lighted up her pale face. "It's not that, if youanalyze it. 'Shall himself be slain'—it sounds as if the enemy's fateis sealed."

I nodded, then spun around sharply, for I fancied I heard a dullcrashing at the edge of the clearing. Then I went here and there,gathering wood enough to keep our fire burning for some time. Onebranch, a thick, straight one, I chose from the heap and leaned againstthe big tree, within easy reach of my hand.

"That's for a club," I told Susan, and she half shrunk, half stiffenedat the implication.

We fell to talking about Judge Pursuivant, the charm and the enigmathat invested him. Both of us felt gratitude that he had immediatelyclarified our own innocence in the grisly slayings, but to both came asudden inspiration, distasteful and disquieting. I spoke first:

"Susan! Why did the judge bring us here?"

"He said, to help face and defeat the monster. But—but——"

"Who is that monster?" I demanded. "What human being puts on asemi-bestial appearance, to rend and kill?"

"Y—you don't mean the judge?"

As I say, it had been in both our minds. We were silent, and felt shameand embarrassment.

"Look here," I went on earnestly after a moment, "perhaps we're beingungrateful, but we mustn't be unprepared. Think, Susan; nobody knowswhere Judge Pursuivant was at the time of your father's death, at thetime I saw the thing in these woods." I broke off, remembering how Ihad met the judge for the first time, so shortly after my desperatestruggle with the point-eared demon. "Nobody knows where he was whenthe constable's brother was attacked and mortally wounded."

She gazed about fearfully. "Nobody," she added breathlessly, "knowswhere he is now."

I was remembering a conversation with him; he had spoken of books,mentioning a rare, a supposedly non-existent volume. What was it? ...the Wicked Bible. And what was it I had once heard about that work?

It came back to me now, out of the sub-conscious brain-chamber where,apparently, one stores everything he hears or reads in idleness, andfrom which such items creep on occasion. It had been in Lewis Spence'sEncyclopedia of Occultism, now on the shelf in my New York apartment.

The Wicked Bible, scripture for witches and wizards, from whichmagic-mongers of the Dark Ages drew their inspiration and theirknowledge! And Judge Pursuivant had admitted to having one!

What had he learned from it? How had he been so glib about thescience—yes, and the psychology—of being a werewolf?

"If what we suspect is true," I said to Susan, "we are here at hismercy. Nobody is going to come in here, not if horses dragged them. Athis leisure he will fall upon us and tear us to pieces."

But, even as I spoke, I despised myself for my weak fears in herpresence. I picked up my club and was comforted by its weight andthickness.

"I met that devil once," I said, studying cheer and confidence into myvoice this time. "I don't think it relished the meeting any too much.Next time won't be any more profitable for it."

She smiled at me, as if in comradely encouragement; then we bothstarted and fell silent. There had risen, somewhere among the thickets,a long low whining.

I put out a foot, stealthily, as though fearful of being caught inmotion. A quick kick flung more wood on the fire. I blinked in thelight and felt the heat. Standing there, as a primitive man might havestood in his flame-guarded camp to face the horrors of the ancientworld, I tried to judge by ear the direction of that whine.

It died, and I heard, perhaps in my imagination, a stealthy padding.Then the whining began again, from a new quarter and nearer.

I made myself step toward it. My shadow, leaping grotesquely among thetree trunks, almost frightened me out of my wits. The whine had changedinto a crooning wail, such as that with which dogs salute the fullmoon. It seemed to plead, to promise; and it was coming closer to theclearing.

Once before I had challenged and taunted the thing with scornful words.Now I could not make my lips form a single syllable. Probably it wasjust as well, for I thought and watched the more. Something black andcautious was moving among the branches, just beyond the shrubbery thatscreened it from our firelight. I knew, without need of a clear view,what that black something was. I lifted my club to the ready.

The sound it made had become in some fashion articulate, though nothuman in any quality. There were no words to it, but it spoke to theheart. The note of plea and promise had become one of command—and notdirected to me.

I found my own voice.

"Get out of here, you devil!" I roared at it, and threw my club. Evenas I let go of it, I wished I had not. The bushes foiled my aim, andthe missile crashed among them and dropped to the mossy ground. Thecreature fell craftily silent. Then I felt sudden panic and regret atbeing left weaponless, and I retreated toward the fire.

"Susan," I said huskily, "give me another stick. Hurry!"

She did not move or stir, and I rummaged frantically among the heapeddry branches for myself. Catching up the first piece of wood that wouldserve, I turned to her with worried curiosity.

She was still seated upon the cloak-draped root, but she had drawnherself tense, like a cat before a mouse-hole. Her head was thrustforward, so far that her neck extended almost horizontally. Her dilatedeyes were turned in the direction from which the whining and crooninghad come. They had a strange clarity in them, as if they could piercethe twigs and leaves and meet there an answering, understanding gaze.

"Susan!" I cried.

Still she gave no sign that she heard me, if hear me she did. Sheleaned farther forward, as if ready to spring up and run. Once more theunbeastly wail rose from the place where our watcher was lurking.

Susan's lips trembled. From them came slowly and softly, then louder, along-drawn answering howl.

"Aoooooooooooooo! Aooooooooooooooooooo!"

The stick almost fell from my hands. She rose, slowly but confidently.Her shoulders hunched high, her arms hung forward as though they wantedto reach to the ground. Again she howled:

"Aoooooooooooooooooooo!"

I saw that she was going to move across the clearing, toward thetrees—through the trees. My heart seemed to twist into a knot insideme, but I could not let her do such a thing. I made a quick stride andplanted myself before her.

"Susan, you mustn't!"

She shrank back, her face turning slowly up to mine. Her back was tothe fire, yet light rose in her eyes, or perhaps behind them; a greenlight, such as reflects in still forest pools from the moon. Her handslifted suddenly, as though to repel me. They were half closed and thecrooked fingers drawn stiff, like talons.

"Susan!" I coaxed her, yet again, and she made no answer but triedto slip sidewise around me. I moved and headed her off, and shegrowled—actually growled, like a savage dog.

With my free hand I clutched her shoulder. Under my fingers her fleshwas as taut as wire fabric. Then, suddenly, it relaxed into humantissue again, and she was standing straight. Her eyes had lost theirweird light, they showed only dark and frightened.

"Talbot," she stammered. "Wh—what have I been doing?"

"Nothing, my dear," I comforted her. "It was nothing that we weren'table to fight back."

From the woods behind me came a throttling yelp, as of some hungrything robbed of prey within its very grasp. Susan swayed, seemed aboutto drop, and I caught her quickly in my arms. Holding her thus, Iturned my head and laughed over my shoulder.

"Another score against you!" I jeered at my enemy. "You didn't get her,not with all your filthy enchantments!"

Susan was beginning to cry, and I half led, half carried her back tothe fireside. At my gesture she sat on her cloak again, as tractable asa child who repents of rebellion and tries to be obedient.

There were no more sounds from the timber. I could feel an emptinessthere, as if the monster had slunk away, baffled.

13. "Light's Our Best Weapon."

Neither of us said anything for a while after that. I stoked up thefire, to be doing something, and it made us so uncomfortably warm thatwe had to crowd away from it. Sitting close against the tree-trunk, Ibegan to imagine something creeping up the black lane of shadow it castbehind us to the edge of the clearing; and yet again I thought I heardnoises. Club in hand, I went to investigate, and I was not disappointedin the least when I found nothing.

Finally Susan spoke. "This," she said, "is a new light on the thing."

"It's nothing to be upset about," I tried to comfort her.

"Not be upset!" She sat straight up, and in the light of the fire Icould see a single pained line between her brows, deep and sharp as achisel-gash. "Not when I almost turned into a beast!"

"How much of that do you remember?" I asked her.

"I was foggy in my mind, Talbot, almost as at the séance, but Iremember being drawn—drawn to what was waiting out there." Her eyessought the thickets on the far side of our blaze. "And it didn't seemhorrible, but pleasant and welcome and—well, as if it were my kind.You," and she glanced quickly at me, then ashamedly away, "you weresuddenly strange and to be avoided."

"Is that all?"

"It spoke to me," she went on in husky horror, "and I spoke to it."

I forbore to remind her that the only sound she had uttered was awordless howl. Perhaps she did not know that—I hoped not. We said nomore for another awkward time.

Finally she mumbled, "I'm not the kind of woman who cries easily; butI'd like to now."

"Go ahead," I said at once, and she did, and I let her. Whether I tookher into my arms, or whether she came into them of her own accord, I donot remember exactly; but it was against my shoulder that she finishedher weeping, and when she had finished she did feel better.

"That somehow washed the fog and the fear out of me," she confessed,almost brightly.

It must have been a full hour later that rustlings rose yet again inthe timber. So frequently had my imagination tricked me that I didnot so much as glance up. Then Susan gave a little startled cry, andI sprang to my feet. Beyond the fire a tall, gray shape had becomevisible, with a pale glare of light around it.

"Don't be alarmed," called a voice I knew. "It is I—Otto Zoberg."

"Doctor!" I cried, and hurried to meet him. For the first time in mylife, I felt that he was a friend. Our differences of opinion, oncemaking companionship strained, had so dwindled to nothing in comparisonto the danger I faced, and his avowed trust in me as innocent of murder.

"How are you?" I said, wringing his hand. "They say you were hurt bythe mob."

"Ach, it was nothing serious," he reassured me. "Only this." Hetouched with his forefinger an eye, and I could see that it was bruisedand swollen half shut. "A citizen with too ready a fist and too slow amind has that to answer for."

"I'm partly responsible," I said. "You were trying to help me, Iunderstand, when it happened."

More noise behind him, and two more shapes pushed into the clearing. Irecognized Judge Pursuivant, nodding to me with his eyes bright underhis wide hat-brim. The other man, angular, falcon-faced, one arm in asling, I had also seen before. It was Constable O'Bryant. I spoke tohim, but he gazed past me, apparently not hearing.

Doctor Zoberg saw my perplexed frown, and he turned back toward theconstable. Snapping long fingers in front of the great hooked nose,he whistled shrilly. O'Bryant started, grunted, then glared around asthough he had been suddenly and rudely awakened.

"What's up?" he growled menacingly, and his sound hand moved swiftly toa holster at his side. Then his eyes found me, and with an oath he drewhis revolver.

"Easy, Constable! Easy does it," soothed Judge Pursuivant, his owngreat hand clutching O'Bryant's wrist. "You've forgotten that I showedhow Mr. Wills must be innocent."

"I've forgotten what we're here for at all," snapped O'Bryant, gazingaround the clearing. "Hey, have I been drunk or something? I said thatI'd never——"

"I'll explain," offered Zoberg. "The judge met me in town, and we cametogether to see you. Remember? You said you would like to avenge yourbrother's death, and came with us. Then, when you balked at the veryedge of this Devil's Croft, I took the liberty of hypnotizing you."

"Huh? How did you do that?" growled the officer.

"With a look, a word, a motion of the hand," said Zoberg, his eyestwinkling. "Then you ceased all objections and came in with us."

Pursuivant clapped O'Bryant on the unwounded shoulder. "Sit down," heinvited, motioning toward the roots of the tree.

The five of us gathered around the fire, like picknickers instead ofallies against a supernormal monster. There, at Susan's insistence,I told of what had happened since Judge Pursuivant had left us. Alllistened with rapt attention, the constable grunting occasionally, thejudge clicking his tongue, and Doctor Zoberg in absolute silence.

It was Zoberg who made the first comment after I had finished. "Thisexplains many things," he said.

"It don't explain a doggone thing," grumbled O'Bryant.

Zoberg smiled at him, then turned to Judge Pursuivant. "Yourectoplasmic theory of lycanthropy—such as you have explained it tome—is most interesting and, I think, valid. May I advance it a trifle?"

"In what way?" asked the judge.

"Ectoplasm, as you see it, forms the werewolf by building upon themedium's body. But is not ectoplasm more apt, according to theobservations of many people, to draw completely away and form aseparate and complete thing of itself? The thing may be beastly, as yousuggest. Algernon Blackwood, the English writer of psychic stories,almost hits upon it in one of his 'John Silence' tales. He described anastral personality taking form and threatening harm while its physicalbody slept."

"I know the story you mean," agreed Judge Pursuivant. "The Camp of theDog, I think it's called."

"Very well, then. Perhaps, while Miss Susan's body lay in a trance,securely handcuffed between Wills and myself——"

"Oh!" wailed Susan. "Then it was I, after all."

"It couldn't have been you," I told her at once.

"But it was! And, while I was at the judge's home with you, part of memet the constable's brother in this wood." She stared wildly around her.

"It might as well have been part of me," I argued, and O'Bryantglared at me as if in sudden support of that likelihood. But Susanshook her head.

"No, for which of us responded to the call of that thing out there?"

For the hundredth time she gazed fearfully through the fire at thebushes behind which the commanding whine had risen.

"I have within me," she said dully, "a nature that will break out, lookand act like a beast-demon, will kill even my beloved father——"

"Please," interjected Judge Pursuivant earnestly, "you must not takeresponsibility upon yourself for what happened. If the ectoplasmengendered by you made up the form of the killer, the spirit may havecome from without."

"How could it?" she asked wretchedly.

"How could Marthe Beraud exude ectoplasm that formed a bearded,masculine body?" Pursuivant looked across to Zoberg. "Doctor, yousurely know the famous 'Bien Boa' séance, and how the materializedentity spoke Arabic when the medium, a Frenchwoman, knew little ornothing of that language?"

Zoberg sat with bearded chin on lean hand. His joined brows bristledthe more as he corrugated his forehead in thought. "We are each athousand personalities," he said, sententiously if not comfortingly."How can we rule them all, or rule even one of them?"

O'Bryant said sourly that all this talk was too high flown for him tounderstand or to enjoy. He dared hope, however, that the case couldnever be tied up to Miss Susan Gird, whom he had known and liked sinceher babyhood.

"It can never do that," Zoberg said definitely. "No court or jury wouldconvict her on the evidence we are offering against her."

I ventured an opinion: "While you are attempting to show that Susan isa werewolf, you are forgetting that something else was prowling aroundour fire, just out of sight."

"Ach, just out of sight!" echoed Zoberg. "That means you aren't surewhat it was."

"Or even that there was anything," added Susan, so suddenly andstrongly that I, at least, jumped.

"There was something, all right," I insisted. "I heard it."

"You thought you heard a sound behind the tree," Susan reminded me."You looked, and there was nothing."

Everyone gazed at me, rather like staid adults at a naughty child. Isaid, ungraciously, that my imagination was no better than theirs, andthat I was no easier to frighten. Judge Pursuivant suggested that wemake a search of the surrounding woods, for possible clues.

"A good idea," approved Constable O'Bryant. "The ground's damp. Wemight find some sort of footprints."

"Then you stay here with Miss Susan," the judge said to him. "We otherswill circle around."

The gaunt constable shook his head. "Not much, mister. I'm in onwhatever searching is done. I've got something to settle with whateverkilled my kid brother."

"But there are only three lanterns," pointed out Judge Pursuivant. "Wehave to carry them—light's our best weapon."

Zoberg then spoke up, rather diffidently, to say that he would be gladto stay with Susan. This was agreed upon, and the other three of usprepared for the search.

I took the lantern from Zoberg's hand, nodded to the others, and walkedaway among the trees.

14. "I Was—I Am—a Wolf."

Deliberately I had turned my face toward the section beyond thefire, for, as I have said repeatedly, it was there that I had heardthe movements and cries of the being that had so strongly moved andbewitched Susan. My heart whispered rather loudly that I must look formyself at its traces or lack of them, or for ever view myself withscorn.

Almost at once I found tracks, the booted tracks of my three allies.Shaking my lantern to make it flare higher, I went deeper among theclumps, my eyes quartering the damp earth. After a few moments I foundwhat I had come to look for.

The marks were round and rather vague as to toe-positions, yet not soclear-cut as to be made by hoofs. Rather they suggested a malformedstump or a palm with no fingers, and they were deep enough to denoteconsiderable weight; the tracks of my own shoes, next to them, wererather shallower. I bent for a close look, then straightened up, lookedeverywhere at once, and held my torch above my head to shed light allaround; for I had suddenly felt eyes upon me.

I caught just a glimpse as of two points of light, fading away intosome leafa*ge and in the direction of the clearing, and toward them Imade my way; but there was nothing there, and the only tracks underfootwere of shod human beings, myself or one of the others. I returned tomy outward search, following the round tracks.

They were plainly of only two feet—there were no double impressions,like those of a quadruped—but I must have stalked along them for tenminutes when I realized that I had no way of telling whether theywent forward or backward. I might be going away from my enemy insteadof toward it. A close examination did me little good, and I furtherpondered that the creature would lurk near the clearing, not go sostraight away. Thus arguing within myself, I doubled back.

Coming again close to the starting-point, I thought of a quick visit tothe clearing and a comforting word or two with Susan and Zoberg. SurelyI was almost there; but why did not the fire gleam through the trees?Were they out of wood? Perplexed, I quickened my pace. A gnarled treegrew in my path, its low branches heavily bearded with vines. Beyondthis rose only the faintest of glows. I paused to push aside somestrands and peer.

The fire had almost died, and by its light I but half saw two figures,one tall and one slender, standing together well to one side. Theyfaced each other, and the taller—a seeming statue of wet-lookinggray—held its companion by a shoulder. The other gray hand wasstroking the smaller one's head, pouring grayness thereon.

I saw only this much, without stopping to judge or to wonder. Then Iyelled, and sprang into the clearing. At my outcry the two fell apartand faced me. The smallest was Susan, who took a step in my directionand gave a little smothered whimper, as though she was trying to speakthrough a blanket. I ran to her side, and with a rough sweep of mysleeve I cleared from her face and head a mass of slimy, shiny jelly.

"You!" I challenged the other shape. "What have you been trying to doto her?"

For only a breathing-space it stood still, as featureless and clumsy asa half-formed figure of gray mud. Then darkness sprang out upon it, andhair. Eyes blazed at me, green and fearsome. A sharp muzzle opened toemit a snarl.

"Now I know you," I hurled at it. "I'm going to kill you."

And I charged.

Claws ripped at my head, missed and tore the cloth of my coat. Oneof my arms shot around a lean, hairy middle with powerful musclesstraining under its skin, and I drove my other fist for where I judgedthe pit of the stomach to be. Grappled, we fell and rolled over. Thebeast smell I remembered was all about us, and I knew that jaws wereshoving once again at my throat. I jammed my forearm between them, sofar into the hinge of them that they could not close nor crush. Myother hand clutched the skin of the throat, a great loose fistful, drewit taut and began to twist with all my strength. I heard a half-brokenyelp of strangled pain, felt a slackening of the body that struggledagainst me, knew that it was trying to get away. But I managed to rollon top, straddling the thing.

"You're not so good on defense," I panted, and brought my other handto the throat, for I had no other idea save to kill. Paws grasped andtore at my wrists. There was shouting at my back, in Susan's voice andseveral others. Hands caught me by the shoulders and tried to pull meup and away.

"No!" I cried. "This is it, the werewolf!"

"It's Doctor Zoberg, you idiot," growled O'Bryant in my ear. "Come on,let him up."

"Yes," added Judge Pursuivant, "it's Doctor Zoberg, as you say; but amoment ago it was the monster we have been hunting."

I had been dragged upright by now, and so had Zoberg. He could onlychoke and glare for the time being, his fingers to his half-crushedthroat. Pursuivant had moved within clutching distance of him, and waseyeing him as a cat eyes a mouse.

"Like Wills, I only pretended to search, then doubled back to watch,"went on the judge. "I saw Zoberg and Miss Susan talking. He spokequietly, rhythmically, commandingly. She went into half a trance, andI knew she was hypnotized.

"As the fire died down, he began the change. Ectoplasm gushed out andover him. Before it took form, he began to smear some upon her. And Mr.Wills here came out of the woods and at him."

O'Bryant looked from the judge to Zoberg. Then he fumbled with hisundamaged hand in a hip pocket, produced handcuffs and stepped forward.The accused man grinned through his beard, as if admitting defeatin some trifling game. Then he held out his wrists with an air ofresignation and I, who had manacled them once, wondered again at theircorded strength. The irons clicked shut upon one, then the other.

"You know everything now," said Zoberg, in a soft voice but a steadyone. "I was—I am—a wolf; a wolf who hoped to mate with an angel."

His bright eyes rested upon Susan, who shrank back. Judge Pursuivanttook a step toward the prisoner.

"There is no need for you to insult her," he said.

Zoberg grinned at him, with every long tooth agleam. "Do you want tohear my confession, or don't you?"

"Sure we want to hear it," grunted O'Bryant. "Leave him alone, judge,and let him talk." He glanced at me. "Got any paper, Mr. Wills?Somebody better take this down in writing."

I produced a wad of note-paper and a stub pencil. Placing it upon myknee, with the lantern for light, I scribbled, almost word for word,the tale that Doctor Zoberg told.

15. "And That Is the End."

"Perhaps I was born what I am," he began. "At least, even as a ladI knew that there was a lust and a power for evil within me. Nightcalled to me, where it frightens most children. I would slip out ofmy father's house and run for miles, under the trees or across fields,with the moon for company. This was in Germany, of course, before thewar."

"During the war——" began Judge Pursuivant.

"During the war, when most men were fighting, I was in prison." AgainZoberg grinned, briefly and without cheer. "I had found it easy andinspiring to kill persons, with a sense of added strength following.But they caught me and put me in what they called an asylum. I wassupposed to be crazy. They confined me closely, but I, reading booksin the library, grew to know what the change was that came upon me atcertain intervals. I turned my attention to it, and became able tocontrol the change, bringing it on or holding it off at will."

He looked at Susan again. "But I'm ahead of my story. Once, when I wasat school, I met a girl—an American student of science and philosophy.She laughed at my wooing, but talked to me about spirits and psychicalphenomena. That, my dear Susan, was your mother. When the end of thewar brought so many new things, it also brought a different viewpointtoward many inmates of asylums. Some Viennese doctors, and laterSigmund Freud himself, found my case interesting. Of course, theydid not arrive at the real truth, or they would not have procured myrelease."

"After that," I supplied, writing swiftly, "you became an expertpsychical investigator and journeyed to America."

"Yes, to find the girl who had once laughed and studied with me. Aftersome years I came to this town, simply to trace the legend of thisDevil's Croft. And here, I found, she had lived and died, and leftbehind a daughter that was her image."

Judge Pursuivant cleared his throat. "I suspect that you're leaving outpart of your adventures, Doctor."

Zoberg actually laughed. "Ja, I thought to spare you a few shocks.But if you will have them, you may. I visited Russia—and in 1922 amedical commission of the Soviet Union investigated several scoremysterious cases of peasants killed—and eaten." He licked his lips,like a cat who thinks of meat. "In Paris I founded and conducted arather interesting night school, for the study of diabolism in itsrelationship to science. And in 1936, certain summer vacationists onLong Island were almost frightened out of their wits by a lurking thingthat seemed half beast, half man." He chuckled. "Your Literary Digestmade much of it. The lurking thing was, of course, myself."

We stared. "Say, why do you do these things?" the constable blurted.

Zoberg turned to him, head quizzically aslant. "Why do you uphold yourlocal laws? Or why does Judge Pursuivant study ancient philosophies?Or why do Wills and Susan turn soft eyes upon each other? Because theheart of each so insists."

Susan was clutching my arm. Her fingers bit into my flesh as Zoberg'seyes sought her again.

"I found the daughter of someone I once loved," he went on, with realgentleness in his voice. "Wills, at least, can see in her what I saw. Anew inspiration came to me, a wish and a plan to have a comrade in mysecret exploits."

"A beast-thing like yourself?" prompted the judge.

Zoberg nodded. "A lupa to my lupus. But this girl—Susan Gird—hadnot inherited the psychic possibilities of her mother."

"What!" I shouted. "You yourself said that she was the greatest mediumof all time!"

"I did say so. But it was a lie."

"Why, in heaven's name——"

"It was my hope," he broke in quietly, "to make of her a medium, or alycanthrope—call the phenomenon which you will. Are you interested inmy proposed method?" He gazed mockingly around, and his eyes restedfinally upon me. "Make full notes, Wills. This will be interesting, ifnot stupefying, to the psychic research committees.

"It is, as you know, a supernormal substance that is exuded to changethe appearance of my body. What, I wondered, would some of thatsubstance do if smeared upon her?"

I started to growl out a curse upon him, but Judge Pursuivant, rapt,motioned for me to keep silent.

"Think back through all the demonologies you have read," Zoberg wasurging. "What of the strange 'witch ointments' that, spread over anordinary human body, gave it beast-form and beast-heart? There, again,legend had basis in scientific fact."

"By the thunder, you're logical," muttered Judge Pursuivant.

"And damnable," I added. "Go on, Doctor. You were going to smear thechange-stuff upon Susan."

"But first, I knew, I must convince her that she had within her theessence of a wolf. And so, the séances."

"She was no medium," I said again.

"I made her think she was. I hypnotized her, and myself did weirdwonders in the dark room. But she, in a trance, did not know. I neededwitnesses to convince her."

"So you invited Mr. Wills," supplied Judge Pursuivant.

"Yes, and her father. They had been prepared to accept her as mediumand me as observer. Seeing a beast-form, they would tell her afterwardthat it was she."

"Zoberg," I said between set teeth, "you're convicted out of your ownmouth of rottenness that convinces me of the existence of the Devilafter whom this grove was named. I wish to heaven that I'd killed youwhen we were fighting."

"Ach, Wills," he chuckled, "you'd have missed this most entertainingautobiographical lecture."

"He's right," grumbled O'Bryant; and, "Let him go on," the judgepleaded with me.

"Once sure of this power within her," Zoberg said deeply, "she wouldbe prepared in heart and soul to change at touch of the ointment—theectoplasm. Then, to me she must turn as a fellow-creature. Together,throughout the world, adventuring in a way unbelievable——"

His voice died, and we let it. He stood in the firelight, head thrownback, manacled hands folded. He might have been a martyr instead of afiend for whom a death at the stake would be too easy.

"I can tell what spoiled the séance," I told him after a moment. "Gird,sitting opposite, saw that it was you, not Susan, who had changed. Youhad to kill him to keep him from telling, there and then."

"Yes," agreed Zoberg. "After that, you were arrested, and, later,threatened. I was in an awkward position. Susan must believe herself,not you, guilty. That is why I have championed you throughout. I wentthen to look for you."

"And attacked me," I added.

"The beast-self was ascendant. I cannot always control it completely."He sighed. "When Susan disappeared, I went to look for her on thesecond evening. When I came into this wood, the change took place,half automatically. Associations, I suppose. Constable, your brotherhappened upon me in an evil hour."

"Yep," said O'Bryant gruffly.

"And that is the end," Zoberg said. "The end of the story and, Isuppose, the end of me."

"You bet it is," the constable assured him. "You came with the judge tofinish your rotten work. But we're finishing it for you."

"One moment," interjected Judge Pursuivant, and his fire-lit facebetrayed a perplexed frown. "The story fails to explain one importantthing."

"Does it so?" prompted Zoberg, inclining toward him with a show ofnegligent grace.

"If you were able to free yourself and kill Mr. Gird——"

"By heaven, that's right!" I broke in. "You were chained, Zoberg, toSusan and to your chair. I'd go bail for the strength and tightness ofthose handcuffs."

He grinned at each of us in turn and held out his hands with theirmanacles. "Is it not obvious?" he inquired.

We looked at him, a trifle blankly I suppose, for he chuckled onceagain.

"Another employment of the ectoplasm, that useful substance of change,"he said gently. "At will my arms and legs assume thickness, and holdthe rings of the confining irons wide. Then, when I wish, they growslender again, and——"

He gave his hands a sudden flirt, and the bracelets fell from them onthe instant. He pivoted and ran like a deer.

"Shoot!" cried the judge, and O'Bryant whipped the big gun from hisholster.

Zoberg was almost within a vine-laced clump of bushes when O'Bryantfired. I heard a shrill scream, and saw Zoberg falter and drop to hishands and knees.

We were all starting forward. I paused a moment to put Susan behindme, and in that moment O'Bryant and Pursuivant sprang ahead and cameup on either side of Zoberg. He was still alive, for he writhed up toa kneeling position and made a frantic clutch at the judge's coat.O'Bryant, so close that he barely raised his hand and arm, fired asecond time.

Zoberg spun around somehow on his knees, stiffened and screamed.Perhaps I should say that he howled. In his voice was the inarticulateagony of a beast wounded to death. Then he collapsed.

Both men stooped above him, cautious but thorough in their examination.Finally Judge Pursuivant straightened up and faced toward us.

"Keep Miss Susan there with you," he warned me. "He's dead, and not apretty sight."

Slowly they came back to us. Pursuivant was thoughtful, while O'Bryant,Zoberg's killer, seemed cheerful for the first time since I hadmet him. He even smiled at me, as Punch would smile after strikinga particularly telling blow with his cudgel. Rubbing his pistolcaressingly with his palm, he stowed it carefully away.

"I'm glad that's over," he admitted. "My brother can rest easy in hisgrave."

"And we have our work cut out for us," responded the judge. "We mustdecide just how much of the truth to tell when we make a report."

O'Bryant dipped his head in sage acquiescence. "You're right," herumbled. "Yes, sir, you're right."

"Would you believe me," said the judge, "if I told you that I knew itwas Zoberg, almost from the first?"

But Susan and I, facing each other, were beyond being surprized, evenat that.

THE END

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74120 ***