She told me that she remembered being in the parlor, with Constable
O'Bryant questioning me. At the time she had had difficulty remembering
even the beginning of the séance, and it was not until I had been taken
away that she came to realize what had happened to her father. That, of
course, distressed and distracted her further, and even now the whole
experience was wretchedly hazy to her.
"I do recall sitting down with you," she said finally, after I had
urged her for the twentieth time to think hard. "You chained me, yes,
and Doctor Zoberg. Then yourself. Finally I seemed to float away, as if
in 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. The
light was turned out, naturally. I don't remember, but I suppose you
attended to that."
"I asked to try you," I confessed. "I didn't touch the lamp until after
you had seemed to drop off to sleep."
She did recall to memory her father's protest at his manacles, and
Doctor 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, of
course, and for a time seemed ready to break down. When the trouble
began about you--the crowd gathered at the town hall--he gathered his
strength and went out, to see if he could help defend or rescue you. He
was 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 at
our 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, and
I suggested a change of the subject. We had lunch together, egg
sandwiches and coffee, then played several hands of casino. Tiring of
that, we turned to the books and she read aloud to me from Keats. Never
has _The Eve of St. Agnes_ sounded better to me. Evening fell, and we
were preparing to take yet another meal--a meat pie, which William
assured us was one of his culinary triumphs--when the door burst open
and 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 more
than half an hour ago. O'Bryant was feeling better, ready to get back
on duty. His deputy-brother, anxious to get hold of Wills first, for
glory or vengeance, ventured into the place, just at dusk. He came out
in a little while, torn and bitten almost to pieces, and died as he
broke 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, like
actors registering surprize in an old-fashioned melodrama. As for Judge
Pursuivant, he turned to the table, cut a generous wedge of the meat
pie and set it, all savory and steaming, on a plate for himself. His
calm zest for the good food gave us others steadiness again, so that we
sat 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 her
about me and finally sending her to me; this, as he said, so that we
would convince each other of our respective innocences. It was purely
an inspiration, for he had had no idea, of course, that such conviction
would turn out so final. Thereafter he made shift to enter the Gird
house and talk to Doctor Zoberg.
That worthy he found sitting somewhat limply in the parlor, with
John Gird's coffin in the next room. Zoberg, the judge reported,
was mystified about the murder and anxious to bring to justice the
townsfolk--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 Pursuivant
informed me. "He intends to bring the best lawyer possible for your
defense, is willing even to assist in paying the fee. He also swears
that character witnesses can be brought to testify that you are the
most peaceable and law-abiding man in the country."
"That's mighty decent of him," I said. "According to your reasoning of
this morning, his attitude proves him innocent, too."
"What reasoning was that?" asked Susan, and I was glad that the judge
continued without answering her.
"I was glad that I had sent Miss Susan on. If your car had remained
there, Mr. Wills, Doctor Zoberg might have driven off in it to rally
your defenses."
"Not if I know him," I objected. "The whole business, what of the
mystery and occult significances, will hold him right on the spot. He's
relentlessly curious and, despite his temporary collapse, he's no
coward."
"I agree with that," chimed in Susan.
As for my pursuers of the previous night, the judge went on, they had
been roaming the snow-covered streets in twos and threes, heavily armed
for the most part and still determined to punish me for killing their
neighbor. The council was too frightened or too perplexed to deal with
the situation, and the constable was still in bed, with his brother
assuming authority, when Judge Pursuivant made his inquiries. The judge
went to see the wounded man, who very pluckily determined to rise and
take 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 and
whisky, which further braced his spirits. In the evening came the
invasion by the younger O'Bryant of the Devil's Croft, and his
resultant death at the claws and teeth of what prowled there.
"His throat was so torn open and filled with blood that he could not
speak," the judge concluded, "but he pointed back into the timber, and
then tried to trace something in the snow with his finger. It looked
like a wolf's head, with pointed nose and ears. He died before he
finished."
"You saw him come out?" I asked.
"No. I'd gone back to town, but later I saw the body, and the sketch in
the snow."
He finished his dinner and pushed back his chair. "Now," he said
heartily, "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 us
and, so far as I can ascertain, but one of the enemy." Both Susan and
I started to speak, but he held up his hand, smiling. "I know without
being reminded that the odds are still against us, because the one
enemy is fierce and blood-drinking, and can change shape and character.
Maybe it can project itself to a distance--which makes it all the
harder, 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 were
ten thousand friendly constables in the neighborhood, instead of a
single hostile one, they wouldn't believe us."
"Right," agreed Judge Pursuivant. "We're like the group of perplexed
mortals in _Dracula_, who had only their own wits and weapons against a
monster no more forbidding than ours."
* * * * *
It is hard to show clearly how his constant offering of parallels and
rationalizations comforted us. Only the unknown and unknowable can
terrify completely. We three were even cheerful over a bottle of wine
that William fetched and poured out in three glasses. Judge Pursuivant
gave us a toast--"May wolves go hungry!"--and Susan and I drank it
gladly.
"Don't forget what's on our side," said the judge, putting down his
glass. "I mean the stedfast and courageous heart, of which I preached
to Wills last night, and which we can summon from within us any time
and anywhere. The werewolf, dauntlessly faced, loses its dread; and I
think 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 Susan
touched my arm as if in endorsement of the remark, Judge Pursuivant's
spectacles glittered in approval.
"You two will go into the Devil's Croft," he announced. "I'm going back
to town once more."
"Into the Devil's Croft!" we almost shouted, both in the same shocked
breath.
"Of course. Didn't we just get through with the agreement all around
that the lycanthrope can and must be met face to face? Offense is the
best defense, as perhaps one hundred thousand athletic trainers have
reiterated."
"I've already faced the creature once," I reminded him. "As for
appearing dauntless, I doubt my own powers of deceit."
"You shall have a weapon," he said. "A fire gives light, and we know
that such things must have darkness--such as it finds in the midst of
that 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 business
in mystery, and yourself probably charged with another murder. He'd
return to his human shape, you know, the moment he was hurt even
slightly."
Susan spoke, very calmly: "I'm ready to go into the Croft, Judge
Pursuivant."
He clapped his hands loudly, as if applauding in a theater. "Bravo, my
dear, bravo! I see Mr. Wills sets his jaw. That means he's ready to go
with you. Very well, let us be off."
He called to William, who at his orders brought three lanterns--sturdy
old-fashioned affairs, protected by strong wire nettings--and filled
them with oil. We each took one and set out. It had turned clear and
frosty once more, and the moon shone too brightly for my comfort, at
least. However, as we approached the grove, we saw no sentinels; they
could hardly be blamed for deserting, after the fate of the younger
O'Bryant.
We gained the shadow of the outer cedars unchallenged. Here Judge
Pursuivant called a halt, produced a match from his overcoat pocket
and lighted our lanterns all around. I remember that we struck
a fresh light for Susan's lantern; we agreed that, silly as the
three-on-a-match superstition might be, this was no time or place to
tempt Providence.
"Come on," said Judge Pursuivant then, and led the way into the darkest
part of the immense thicket.
_12. "We Are Here at His Mercy."_
We followed Judge Pursuivant, Susan and I, without much of a thought
beyond an understandable dislike for being left alone on the brink of
the timber. It was a slight struggle to get through the close-set cedar
hedge, especially for Susan, but beyond it we soon caught up with the
judge. He strode heavily and confidently among the trees, his lantern
held high to shed light upon broad, polished leaves and thick, wet
stems. The moist warmth of the grove's interior made itself felt again,
and the judge explained again and at greater length the hot springs
that made possible this surprizing condition. All the while he kept
going. He seemed to know his way in that forbidden fastness--indeed, he
must have explored it many times to go straight to his destination.
That destination was a clearing, in some degree like the one where I
had met and fought with my hairy pursuer on the night before. This
place had, however, a great tree in its center, with branches that shot
out in all directions to hide away the sky completely. By straining
the 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 in
between with brush and vines, and underfoot grew velvety moss.
"This will be our headquarters position," said the judge. "Wills, help
me gather wood for a fire. Break dead branches from the standing
trees--never mind picking up wood from the ground, it will be too damp."
Together we collected a considerable heap and, crumpling a bit of paper
in its midst, he kindled it.
"Now, then," he went on, "I'm heading for town. You two will stay here
and keep each other company."
He took our lanterns, blew them out and ran his left arm through the
loops of their handles.
"I'm sure that nothing will attack you in the light of the fire. You're
bound to attract whatever skulks hereabouts, however. When I come
back, we ought to be prepared to go into the final act of our little
melodrama."
He touched my hand, bowed to Susan, and went tramping away into the
timber. The thick leafage blotted his lantern-light from our view
before 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 one
of the humped roots of the great central tree, she sat down on it with
her 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 the
firelight. Finally I shook my head.
"I don't know--I'm no expert," I admitted. "At least it's very big, and
undoubtedly very old--the sort of tree that used to mark a place of
sacrifice."
At the word "sacrifice," Susan lifted her shoulders as if in distaste.
"You're right, Talbot. It would be something grim and Druid-like." She
began to recite, half to herself:
That tree in whose dark shadow
The ghastly priest doth reign,
The priest who slew the slayer
And shall himself be slain.
"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 a
boy. I wish you hadn't mentioned it."
"You mean, because it's an evil omen?" She shook her head, and
contrived a smile that lighted up her pale face. "It's not that, if you
analyze it. 'Shall himself be slain'--it sounds as if the enemy's fate
is sealed."
I nodded, then spun around sharply, for I fancied I heard a dull
crashing at the edge of the clearing. Then I went here and there,
gathering wood enough to keep our fire burning for some time. One
branch, a thick, straight one, I chose from the heap and leaned against
the big tree, within easy reach of my hand.
"That's for a club," I told Susan, and she half shrunk, half stiffened
at the implication.
We fell to talking about Judge Pursuivant, the charm and the enigma
that invested him. Both of us felt gratitude that he had immediately
clarified our own innocence in the grisly slayings, but to both came a
sudden 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 a
semi-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 shame
and embarrassment.
"Look here," I went on earnestly after a moment, "perhaps we're being
ungrateful, but we mustn't be unprepared. Think, Susan; nobody knows
where Judge Pursuivant was at the time of your father's death, at the
time I saw the thing in these woods." I broke off, remembering how I
had met the judge for the first time, so shortly after my desperate
struggle with the point-eared demon. "Nobody knows where he was when
the constable's brother was attacked and mortally wounded."
She gazed about fearfully. "Nobody," she added breathlessly, "knows
where 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, and
from which such items creep on occasion. It had been in Lewis Spence's
_Encyclopedia of Occultism_, now on the shelf in my New York apartment.
The _Wicked Bible_, scripture for witches and wizards, from which
magic-mongers of the Dark Ages drew their inspiration and their
knowledge! And Judge Pursuivant had admitted to having one!
What had he learned from it? How had he been so glib about the
science--yes, and the psychology--of being a werewolf?
"If what we suspect is true," I said to Susan, "we are here at his
mercy. Nobody is going to come in here, not if horses dragged them. At
his leisure he will fall upon us and tear us to pieces."
But, even as I spoke, I despised myself for my weak fears in her
presence. I picked up my club and was comforted by its weight and
thickness.
"I met that devil once," I said, studying cheer and confidence into my
voice 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 both
started 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 in
motion. A quick kick flung more wood on the fire. I blinked in the
light and felt the heat. Standing there, as a primitive man might have
stood in his flame-guarded camp to face the horrors of the ancient
world, 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 the
tree trunks, almost frightened me out of my wits. The whine had changed
into a crooning wail, such as that with which dogs salute the full
moon. It seemed to plead, to promise; and it was coming closer to the
clearing.
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 was
just as well, for I thought and watched the more. Something black and
cautious was moving among the branches, just beyond the shrubbery that
screened 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 not
human in any quality. There were no words to it, but it spoke to the
heart. The note of plea and promise had become one of command--and not
directed to me.