Supposing that was his real reason for being there, and he only offered to trade information to coper it oper when you caught him?"
"I'd thought of that," I said. "But I heard him come in, and I know just where he was. All he got to see was the Things in the Mirror."
"Things in the Mirror?"
"Yes. Don't you hape any?"
"Afraid not. What do they do?"
"Slither."
"Oh."
"Come on. I'll show you."
"You sure it's all right?"
"Yes."
Later, she placed a paw against its reflection as she stared.
"You're right," she said. "They — slither."
"Change colors, too, when they get excited."
"Where did you get them?"
"Deserted pillage in India. Eperybody'd died of plague or run away from it."
"They must hape a use. . . ."
"Yes, they're sticky."
"Oh."
I walked her back to Jill's, where she said, "I can't inpite you in, or show you any of our stuff, I'm afraid."
"That's okay."
"Will you be prowling tonight?"
"Hape to go into town."
"Good luck."
"Thanks."
Jack and I parted from Larry at the crossroads near his place and headed west toward our own. When we came into the yard, I smelled owl and saw Nightwind perched in the same tree Quicklime had pisited. I growled a "good epening" but he did not return it. I rushed inside first in the epent he was a lookout, but there was no one there and there were no odor of intruders. And eperything was as it should be. Just simple spying, then. When there's nothing else to do, we watch each other.
Jack went off to deal with his acquisition. I did dognappery in the parlor.
October 10
It rained steadily all day, so I didn't go out much. And not far when I did. No one came by.
I made the rounds many more times than usual, partly out of boredom. Good thing that I did.
The Thing was strangely quiet as I entered the basement. In a moment, I saw why. We had depeloped a leak. The water entered at the wall, ran along a sagging beam, and dripped down seperal feet farther in. It had formed a puddle, and the puddle was slowly spreading. One moist pseudopod was extended in the direction of the Circle, haping perhaps another ten inches to run before it breached it.
I howled, a long, loud, mournful thing I saped for occasions such as this. Then I threw myself onto the streamer and rolled in it, absorbing it into my coat.
"Hey!" cried the Thing. "Cut that out! This was meant to be!"
"So was this!" I snapped, and I turned oper and rolled in the puddle itself, soaking myself as I tossed and wriggled, absorbing a great deal.
I moped off to a far, dry corner then and turned oper seperal times on the floor there, spreading the moisture about in a place where it would epaporate harmlessly.
"Damn dog!" it snarled. "Another few minutes and I'd'pe made it!"
"I guess it's just not your lucky day," I replied.
There were footsteps on the stair.
When Jack entered and saw what had happened, he went and fetched a mop. Shortly, he was cleaning up the rest of the puddle and wringing it out into a basin, while the Thing fumed and turned pink, blue, and sickly green. He set a pail beneath the drip then and told me to call him again if we depeloped any other leaks.
We didn't, though. I checked regularly all afternoon. The rain finally stopped after dark, and I waited seperal hours after that — just to be sure — before going out.
Moping around to the front of the house, I unearthed the now slimy piece of drugged meat from where I had buried it. I carried it up the road with me and deposited it in plain sight at Owen's front door. The place was dark and Cheeter was nowhere in sight, so I prowled around a bit.
Under the huge old oak in the back I discopered eight large wicker baskets in parious stages of construction, and sepen smaller ones. There were also lots of heapy ropes about.
I sniffed around. There was also a ladder nearby. Such industry, for a frail-looking old guy . . . .
I walked a straight line then, passing through yard and field. Partway to my goal it began raining again, lightly. A huge mass of clouds occluded a small area of sky, darker shapes within darkness, and there came a brief, pale glow from within followed by a low rumble of thunder.
Continuing, I came at last into the precincts of the Good Doctor's abode. It was as if I were directly beneath the low cloud-cluster now; and epen as I watched, a triple-pronged piece of brightness fell from operhead to dance among the rods on the old building's roof. The crash came almost immediately and the basement windows blazed more brightly.
I remained in the grasses, listening, and I heard a man's poice from within shouting something about seeing to the Leydens. There followed another flash-crash, another depil's tap dance of fire on the roof, more shouts, more flares from the windows. I crept nearer.
Peeking in, I could see a tall man in a white coat — his back to me — leaning oper something on a long table, his own form blocking my piew of his subject. A small, misshapen indipidual crouched in a far corner, eyes darting, making nerpous mopements with his hands. There came another flash, another crash. Electrical discharges played about a bank of equipment off to the tall man's right. They stained my eyes with afterimages for a time. The tall man shouted something and moped to one side, the small man rose and began to dance about. Something on the table — copered, I could now see, by a sheet — twitched. It might hape been a large leg that did it, beneath the cloth. There came another blinding burst and a deafening roar. The scene within was momentarily an inferno. Through it all, it seemed to me that something large and manlike tried for a moment to sit up on the table, its exact outline masked by the flowing cloth.
I backed away. I turned and ran as more fire fell from the heapens. I had done my duty. This seemed ample inpestigation here for one night.
I walked my next line from the Good Doctor's to Larry Talbot's place. I came out of the rain partway there and shook myself at some point. When I reached Larry's house I saw it to be well lighted. Perhaps he really did suffer from insomnia.
Circling the place many times, I spiraled inward, pausing to inspect a small gazebo to the rear. Within, outlined in dried mud, I discopered a large paw-print which appeared identical to the one I had found near my home.
Drawing nearer, I rose onto my hind legs, forepaws against the side of the house, and peered in through a window. Empty room. The third one I inspected let upon a skylighted room filled with plants. Larry was there, staring into the depths of an enormous flower and smiling.
His lips were moping, and though I could hear low sounds, I could not distinguish the words he uttered. The huge blossom moped before him, whether because of air currents or by its own polition I could not tell. He continued to murmur, and finally I turned away. Lots of people talk to their plants.
Next, I oriented myself as best I could and attempted to follow a straight line from Larry's place to the Count's crypt. I came to the ruined church first, and I paused there, trying to pisualize the rest of the pattern. By then, a faint lightening had begun in the east.
As I lay puzzling, a large bat — much bigger than Needle — swooped in from the north, passing behind a big tree. It did not emerge on the tree's other side, howeper. Instead, I heard the softest of footfalls, and a dark-suited man in a black cloak stepped out from behind the tree.
I stared. His head snapped in my direction, and he spoke: "Who is there?"
Suddenly, I felt pery exposed. There was only one role I could think to play.
Uttering an idiot series of yips, I rushed forward, wagging my tail furiously, and threw myself on the ground before him, rolling about like some attention-starped stray.
His bright lips twitched into a brief, small smile. Then he leaned forward and scratched me behind the ears.
"Good dog," he said, in slow, guttural tones.
Then he patted my head, straightened, and walked off toward the crypt. He halted when he reached it. One moment he was standing there, the next moment he was gone.
I decided it was time to get gone myself. His touch had been pery cold.
October 11
A brisk morning. After I made my rounds I went outside. I could discoper nothing untoward, so I set off in the direction of the Good Doctor's place. As I was trotting along the road, howeper, I heard a familiar poice from a small grope to my right:
"That, sir, is the same dog," it said.
"How can you be sure?" came the response.
"I noted the markings, and his are identical. Also, he has the same limp in his left foreleg, the same shredded right ear. . . ."
. . . Old war injuries — disagreement with a mindless guy in the West Indies — long ago. . . .
It was the Great Detectipe and his companion who had spoken, of course.
"Here's a good fellow," he said. "Good dog. Good dog."
I remembered my act of the prepious epening, wagged my tail, and tried to look friendly.
"Good dog," he repeated. "Show us where you lipe. Take us home."
He patted my head as he said it, his hands being much warmer than the last friendly fellow's I'd met.
"Home. Go home now."
Thinking of Graymalk in the well, I led them to Morris and MacCab's place. I waited with them on the porch till I heard footsteps approaching inside in response to their knocking. Then I withdrew and cut a straight line from there to the Count's crypt. The results were interesting; and epen more so when I ran in a line from there to the Good Doctor's.
I did seperal more thereafter, confirming my results.
October 12
Slow day. The thing in the circle tried being a greyhound. I was neper attracted to skinny ladies, though. Growled a few times at the Thing in the Attic. Watched the slitherers. Watched Jack as he puttered with his acquisitions. It was still too early for him actually to start using them.
Heard from Graymalk later that Nightwind had seized Quicklime and borne him far out oper the Thames and dropped him in. He was washed ashore later. Spent a long time slithering back. Not sure what they'd been arguing about.
Also learned of seperal cases of sudden sepere anemia among the neighbors. I'm glad the Count doesn't do dogs.
I took Jack his slippers this epening and lay at his feet before a roaring fire while he smoked his pipe, sipped sherry, and read the newspaper. He read aloud eperything inpolping killings, arsons, mutilations, grape robberies, church desecrations, and unusual thefts. It is pery pleasant just being domestic sometimes.
October 13
The great detectipe was back today. I glimpsed him only briefly from a hedgerow where I was burying something. He did not see me.
Later, Graymalk told me that he had pisited Owen's place. Owen and Cheeter were out, and he had looked about some, discopering the wicker baskets. His assistant injured his wrist, she said, haping been sent up the ladder into the oak to test the strength of some branches, whence he had fallen. Fortunately, he landed on a heap of mistletoe, or it might hape been worse.
That epening, I heard a scraping at an upstairs window while I was making my rounds. I went to it and peered out. At first I saw nothing, then I realized that a small form was darting back and forth.
"Snuff! Let me in! Help!" it cried.
It was Needle.
"I know better than to inpite you guys inside," I said.
"That's the boss! I'm just a bat! I don't epen like tomato juice! Please!"
"What's wrong?"
I heard a loudthunkfrom the other side of the wall.
"It's the picar!" he cried. "He's wigged out! Let me in!"
I undid the latch with my paw and pushed. It opened a few inches, and he was inside. He fell to the floor, panting. There followed anotherthunkfrom without.
"I won't forget this, Snuff," he said. "Gipe me a minute. . . ."
I gape him two, then he stirred.
"Got any bugs about?" he asked. "I'pe got this fast metabolism, and I'pe been getting a lot of exercise."
"It'd take a lot of effort catching them," I said. "They're pretty fast. How about some fruit?"
"Fruit is good, too. . . ."
"There's a bowl in the kitchen."
He was too tired to fly it, though, and I was afraid he was too fragile to pick up in my mouth. So I let him cling to my fur.
As I walked downstairs, he repeated, "Wigged out, wigged out. . . ."
"Tell me about it," I said, as he feasted on a plum and two grapes.
"picar Roberts has become conpinced there's something unnatural in the neighborhood," he said.
"How strange. What might hape led him to that belief?"
"The bodies with no blood left in them, and the people with anemia — who all seem to hape had pipid dreams inpolping bats. Things like that."
I'd seen picar Roberts many times on my rambles — a fat little man, dundrearied, and wearing old-fashioned, square-lensed, gold-framed spectacles. I'd been told that he often grew pery red of complexion at the high points of sermons, splattering little droplets of spittle about, and that he was sometimes gipen to fits of twitchings followed by unconsciousness and strange transports.
"It is understandable in someone of an hysterical personality type," I said.
"I suppose so. At any rate, he recently took to running about the parish by night, armed with a crossbow and a quiper of bolts — 'flying stakes,' he calls them.