"You've done much toward convincing me," I admitted. "I'd rather have
the superstitious peasant's belief, though, the one I've always scoffed
at."
"Rationalizing the business didn't help, then? It did when I explained
the Devil's Croft and the springs."
"But the springs don't chase you with sharp teeth. And, as I was
saying, the peasant had a protection that the scientist lacks--trust in
his crucifix and his Bible."
"Why shouldn't he have that trust, and why shouldn't you?" Again the
judge was rummaging in his book-case. "Those symbols of faith gave him
what is needed, a strong heart to drive back the menace, whether it be
wolf-demon or ectoplasmic bogy. Here, my friend."
He laid a third book on the desk. It was a Bible, red-edged and
leather-backed, worn from much use.
"Have a read at that while you finish your drink," he advised me. "_The
Gospel According to St. John_ is good, and it's already marked. Play
you're a peasant, hunting for comfort."
Like a dutiful child I opened the Bible to where a faded purple ribbon
lay between the pages. But already Judge Pursuivant was quoting from
memory:
"'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were
made 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 dangers
and exertions; then Judge Pursuivant's whisky and logic combined to
reassure me; finally, the leather couch in his study, its surface
comfortably hollowed by much reclining thereon, was a sedative in
itself. He gave me two quilts, very warm and very light, and left me
alone. I did not stir until a rattle of breakfast dishes awakened me.
William, the judge's servant, had carefully brushed my clothes. My
shoes also showed free of mud, though they still felt damp and clammy.
The judge himself furnished me with a clean shirt and socks, both items
very 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 announced
very definitely that they intended to decorate the flagpole in the
public square with your corpse. There was also some informal talk
about drinking your blood. We may have vampires as well as werewolves
hereabouts."
I almost cut my lip with the razor. "How did you get rid of them?" I
asked quickly. "They must have followed my tracks."
"Lucky there was more snow after we got in," he replied, "and they came
here only as a routine check-up. They must have visited every house
within miles. Oh, turning them away was easy. I feigned wild enthusiasm
for the manhunt, and asked if I couldn't come along."
He smiled reminiscently, his mustache stirring like a rather genial
blond snake.
"Then what?" I prompted him, dabbing on more lather.
"Why, they were delighted. I took a rifle and spent a few hours on
the 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, his
younger brother, a strong advocate of your immediate capture and
execution, is serving as a volunteer guardian of the peace. He's acting
on 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 to
the 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 out
of it. And the women of the town are looking after Susan Gird and your
friend, the _Herr Doktor_."
I had finished shaving. "How is Doctor Zoberg?" I inquired through the
towel.
"Still pretty badly shaken up. I tried to get in and see him, but it
was impossible. I understand he went out for a while, early in the
evening, but almost collapsed. Just now he is completely surrounded by
cooing old ladies with soup and herb tea. Miss Gird was feeling much
better, and talked to me for a while. I'm not really on warm terms
with the town, you know; people think it's indecent for me to live out
here alone and not give them a chance to gossip about me. So I was
pleasurably surprized to get a kind word from Miss Susan. She told me,
very softly for fear someone might overhear, that she hopes you aren't
caught. She is sure that you did not kill her father."
We went into his dining-room, where William offered pancakes, fried
bacon and the strongest black coffee I ever tasted. In the midst of it
all, I put down my fork and faced the judge suddenly. He grinned above
his cup.
"Well, Mr. Wills? 'Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought'--all you
need is a sensitive hand clasped to your inspired brow."
"You said," I reminded him, "that Susan Gird is sure that I didn't kill
her 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 his
plate and skilfully drenched them with syrup. "That's rather ungrateful
of 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 felt
unaccountably foolish.
"If Susan Gird had truly killed her father," he resumed, after
swallowing, "she would be more adroitly theatrical. She would weep,
swear vengeance on his murderer, and be glad to hear that someone else
had been accused of the crime. She would even invent details to help
incriminate 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, may
invest the werewolf--or ectoplasmic medium--at time of change."