“What was that, sir?” I broke in, without much courtesy.
“I was quoting from the prophet Isaiah. He was speaking of ruined Babylon, not a strange transplanted bit of the tropics, but otherwise it falls pat. Suggestive of a demon-festival. ‘The hairy ones shall dance there.’ ”
“Isaiah, you say? I used to be something of a Bible reader, but I’m afraid I don’t remember the passage.”
He smiled sidewise at me. “But I’m translating direct from the original, Mr.—Wills is the name, eh? The original Hebrew of the prophet Isaiah, whoever he was. The classic-ridden compilers of the King James Version have satyrs dancing, and the prosaic Revised Version offers nothing more startling than goats. But Isaiah and the rest of the ancient peoples knew that there were ‘hairy ones.’ Perhaps you encountered one of that interesting breed tonight.”
“I don’t want to encounter it a second time,” I confessed, and again I shuddered.
“That is something we will talk over more fully. What do you think of the Turkish bath accommodations you have just left behind?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know what to think. Growing green stuff and 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 ejaculated.
“Oh, I’ve been there many times, in defiance of local custom and law—I’m not a native, you see.” Once more his warming smile. “There are at least three springs, and the thick growth of trees makes a natural enclosure, roof and walls, to hold in the damp heat. It’s not the only place of its kind in the world, Mr. Wills. But the thing you met there is a trifle more difficult of explanation. Come on home—we’ll both feel better when we sit down.”
We finished the journey in half an hour. Judge Pursuivant’s house was stoutly made of heavy hewn timbers, somewhat resembling certain lodges I had seen in England. Inside was a large, low-ceilinged room with a hanging oil lamp and a welcome open fire. A fat blond cat came leisurely forward to greet us. Its broad, good-humored face, large eyes and 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 the back of the house.
“Bring in a bathrobe and slippers for this gentleman,” ordered Judge Pursuivant, and himself assisted me to take off my muddy jacket. Thankfully I peeled off my other garments, and when the servant appeared with the robe I slid into it with a sigh.
“I’m in your hands, Judge Pursuivant,” I said. “If you want to turn me over—”
“I might surrender you to an officer,” he interrupted, “but never to a lawless mob. You’d better sit here for a time—and talk to me.”
Near the fire was a desk, with an armchair at either side of it. We took seats, and when William returned from disposing of my wet clothes, he brought along a tray with a bottle of whisky, a siphon and some glasses. The judge prepared two drinks and handed one to me. At his insistence, I talked for some time about the séance and the events leading up to it.
“Remarkable,” mused Judge Pursuivant. Then his great shrewd eyes studied 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?” I smiled and shook my head. “I’m afraid I’m no authority, sir. Anyway, this was no witchcraft—it was a bona fide spirit séance, with ectoplasm.”
“Hum!” snorted the judge. “Witchcraft, spiritism! Did it ever occur to you that they might be one and the same thing?”
“Inasmuch as I never believed in either of them, it never did occur to me.”
Judge Pursuivant finished his drink and wiped his mustache. “Skepticism does not become you too well, Mr. Wills, if you will pardon my frankness. In any case, you saw something very werewolfish indeed, not an 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 felt it.” My eyes dropped to the bruised knuckles of my right hand. “Yet I was fooled—as a magician, I know all about fooling. There can be no such thing as a werewolf.”
“Have a drink,” coaxed Judge Pursuivant, exactly as if I had had none yet. With big, deft hands he poured whisky, then soda, into my glass and gave the mixture a stirring shake. “Now then,” he continued, sitting back in his chair once more, “the time has come to speak of many things.”
He paused, and I, gazing over the rim of that welcome glass, thought how much he looked like a rosy blond walrus.
“I’m going to show you,” he announced, “that a man can turn into a beast, and back again.”
IX
“To a Terrified Victim He Is Doom Itself.”
He leaned toward the bookshelf beside him, pawed for a moment, then laid two sizable volumes on the desk between us.
“If this were a fantasy tale, Mr. Wills,” he said with a hint of one of his smiles, “I would place before you an unthinkably rare book—one that offered, in terms too brilliant and compelling for argument, the awful secrets of the universe, past, present and to come.”
He paused to polish a pair of pince-nez and to clamp them upon the bridge of his broad nose.
“However,” he resumed, “this is reality, sober if uneasy. And I give you, not some forgotten grimoire out of the mystic past, but two works by two recognized and familiar authorities.”
I eyed the books. “May I see?”
For answer he thrust one of them, some six hundred pages in dark blue cloth, across the desk and into my hands. “Thirty Years of Psychical Research, by
