"What do you mean?"

"'Ding, dong, dell.'"

"I don't follow you."

"Literally. p.u.s.s.y's in the well."

"Who threw her in?"

"MacCab, full of sin."

"Where is it?"

"By the outhouse, full of s.h.i.t. Back of Crazy Jill's place. Keeps it from going dry, I guess."

"Why tell me? You're the antisocial one."

"I've played before," he hissed. "I know it's too early in the Game to begin eliminating players. One should wait till after the death of the moon. MacCab and Morris are new at it, though."

I was on my feet and moving.

"p.u.s.s.yfoot, p.u.s.s.yfoot. Wet, wet, wet," I heard him chanting as I ran off toward the hill.

I mounted the hill and raced down it toward Crazy Jill's, the landscape flowing to a blur about me. I pushed my way through a hedge when I reached her place, sought quickly, located the roofed and rock-girt structure, bucket on its rim. I ran to its side, rested my forepaws upon the ledge, and peered down into it. There was a faint splashing sound below.

"Gray!" I called.

A very faint "Here!" came to me.

"Get off to the side! I'm going to drop the bucket!" I called.

The splashing grew louder and faster.

I pushed the bucket off the ledge and listened to it wind down, heard it splash.

"Get in!" I called.

If you've ever tried turning a crank with your paws you know that it is rough work. It was a long, long while before I'd raised the bucket high enough for Graymalk to remove herself to the ledge. She stood there drenched and panting.

"How did you know?" she asked me.

"Quicklime saw it happen, felt the timing was bad, told me."

She shook herself, began licking her fur.

"Jill s.n.a.t.c.hed a collection of Morris and MacCab's herbs," she said between licks. "Didn't go inside their place, though. They'd left them on their porch. Nightwind must have spotted us. Anything new?"

I told her about Bubo's visit last night, and Talbot's this morning.

"I'll go with you," she said. "Later. When I'm rested and dry. We'll check out the Count's crypt."

She shook herself again, licked again.

"In the meantime," she went on, "I need a warm place, and some catnappery."

"I'll see you later then. I have to check some things around the house."

"I'll come by."

I left her there near the outhouse. As I was making my way through the hedge, she called out, "By the way, thanks."

"De nada" I said, and I moved on up the hill.

October 9.

Last night we obtained more ingredients for the master's spell. As we paused on a corner in Soho the Great Detective and his companion came out of the fog and approached us.

"Good evening," he said.

"Good evening," Jack replied.

"Would you happen to have a light?"

Jack produced a package of wax vestas and pa.s.sed it to him. Both men maintained eye contact as he lit his pipe.

"Lots of patrolmen about."

"Yes."

"Something's afoot, I daresay."

"I suppose so."

"It involves those killings, most likely."

"Yes, I'd say you're right."

He returned the matches.

The man had a strange way of regarding one's face, one's clothing, one's boots; and of listening.

As a watchdog, I could appreciate the mode of total attentiveness he a.s.sumed. It was not a normal human att.i.tude. It was as if his entire being were concentrated in the moment, sensitive to every sc.r.a.p of intelligence our encounter furnished.

"I've seen you about here other evenings."

"And I've seen you."

"Likely we'll meet again."

"You may be right."

"In the meantime, take care. It's become dangerous."

"Watch out for yourself, also."

"Oh, I will. Good night."

"Good night."

I had refrained from growling lightly for effect, though the thought had pa.s.sed through my mind. I listened to their footsteps long after they had gone from sight.

"Snuff," Jack said, "remember that man."

Somewhere on the long, long walk home an owl pa.s.sed us, riding the chill breezes on motionless wings. I could not tell whether it was Nightwind. There were rats about the bridge, and I did not know whether Bubo was one of them. Stars swam in the Thames, and the air was full of dirty smells.

I kept pace with Jack's long strides while investigating every sleeping street person huddled in every shelter along our way. I felt at times as if we were being followed, but could discover no reason for my apprehension. It could well be that our mere progress through October was in itself sufficient to produce anxiety. Things, of course, would continue to worsen before they got better -- if they were ever to get better again.

"Ah, Jack," came a voice from our left. "Good evening."

Jack halted and turned, his hand near to the place where his knife was concealed.

Larry Talbot stepped out of the shadows, touching the brim of his hat.

"Mr. Talbot . . ." Jack began.

"'Larry,' please."

"That's right, you're American. Larry, good evening. What are you doing out so late?"

"Walking. It seemed a good night for it. I tend to insomnia. You were in town perhaps?"

"Yes."

"So was I. I met the Great Detective himself, and his friend. He stopped to ask me for a light."

"Oh?"

Larry glanced at his palm, seemed rea.s.sured of something, went on: "I got the impression he's involved in the investigation of the recent slayings . . . of which I understand there was another tonight. You hear anything about it?"

"No."

"Cautioned me to watch my step. I guess that's good advice for all of us, though."

"Did he give the impression he had any real clues?"

Larry shook his head.

"He's a hard man to read. His partner muttered something about dogs, though."

"Interesting."

"I'll walk you partway back, if I may."

"Surely."

"Eight days more till the death of the moon," Jack said after a time. "Are you a moon-watcher, Larry?"

"Very much so," came the reply.

"I'd guessed that."

We walked for a long while in silence, Larry's stride matching Jack's own.

"Are you acquainted with the one called the Count?" Larry asked suddenly.

Jack was silent for several paces, then said slowly, "I've heard of him, but I've never had the pleasure."

"Well, he's come to town," Larry said. "He and I go back a long way. I can always tell when he's about. Opener, I'd guess."

Jack was silent again. In my mind, I revisited yesterday afternoon, when Graymalk and I had made our way along the route Bubo had shown me. She ventured into the crypt while I waited above. She was down there a long while, silent as a cat, before she repaired topside.

"Yes," she told me then, "the rat was right. There's a rather handsome coffin down there, up on a pair of trestles. And an opened trunk containing changes of clothes and some personal items."

"No mirror?"

"No mirror. And Needle's hung himself amid the roots overhead."

"I guess Bubo traded fair," I said.

"Never trust a rat," she told me. "You said he'd sneaked into your place and was snooping around. Supposing that was his real reason for being there, and he only offered to trade information to cover it over 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 have any?"

"Afraid not. What do they do?"

"Slither."

"Oh."

"Come on. I'll show you."