like ghosts too timorous or too weak as yet
to clothe themselves with dense ectoplasm.
By the time he had pulled up before the gateway to
the Igescu estate, night had settled. A big car inside the
gate was pouring out light from its beams up the private
road away from the gate.
A large form leaned against the gate. It turned, and
the extraordinarily broad-shouldered and lean-waisted
figure of a giant was silhouetted against the lights. It
wore a chauffeur's cap.
"I'm Mr. Wellston. I have an appointment at nine."
"Yes, sir. May I see your I.D., sir?"
The voice sounded as if it were being pounded out on
a big drum.
Childe produced several cards, a driver's license, and a
letter, all counterfeit. The chauffeur looked them over
with the aid of a pencil-thin flashlight, handed them
back through the opening in the gate, and walked off to
one side. He disappeared behind the wall. The gate
noiselessly swung inward. Childe walked in, and the gate
swung back. Glam strode up, opened the rear door for
him, and then shut it after Childe was in the back seat.
He got into the driver's seat, and Childe could see that
his ears were huge and at right angles to his head,
seemingly as big as bat's wings. This was an exaggera-
tion, of course, but they were enormous.
The drive was made in silence; the big Rolls-Royce
swung back and forth effortlessly and without any notice-
able motor noise. Its beams sprayed trees, firs, maples,
oaks, and many thick bushes trimmed into various shapes.
The light seemed to bring the vegetation into existence.
After going perhaps a half a mile as the crow flies, but two
miles back and forth, the car stopped before another wall.
This was of red brick, about nine feet high, and also had
iron spikes with barbed wire between the spikes. Glam
pressed something on the dashboard, and the gate's grille
ironwork swung inward.
Childe looked through the windows but could see only
more road and woods. Then, as the car came around the
first bend, he saw the beams reflected against four gleam-
ing eyes. The beams turned away, the eyes disappeared,
but not before he had seen two wolfish shapes slinking off
into the brush.
The car started up a steep hill and as it got near the
top, its beams struck a Victorian cupola. The drive curved
in front of the house and, as the beams swept across the
building, Childe saw that it was, as the newspaper article
had described it, rambling. The central part was obviously
older and of adobe. The wings were of wood, painted
gray, except for the red-trimmed windows, and they ex-
tended part way down the side of the hill, so that the
house seemed to be like a huge octopus squatting on a
rock.
This flashed across his mind, like a frame irrelevantly
inserted in a reel, and then it became just a monstrous
and incongruous building.
The original building had a broad porch, and the
added-on buildings had also been equipped with porches.
Most of the porch was in shadows, but the central portion
was faintly illuminated with light leaking through thin
blinds. A shadow passed across a blind.
The car stopped. Glam lunged out and opened the
door for Childe. Childe stood for a minute, listening. The
wolves had not howled once. He wondered what was to
keep them from attacking the people in the house. Glam
did not seem worried about them.
"This way, sir," Glam said and led him up the porch
and to the front door. He pressed a button, and a light over
the door came on. The door was of massive highly
polished hardwood—mahogany?—carved to represent a
scene from (it seemed likely) Hieronymous Bosch. But
a closer look convinced him that the artist had been
Spanish. There was something indefinably Iberian about
the beings (demons, monsters, humans) undergoing vari-
ous tortures or fornicating in some rather peculiar fash-
ions with some rather peculiar organs.
Glam had left his chauffeur's cap on the front seat of
the Rolls. He was dressed in a black flannel suit, and
his trousers were stuffed into his
to clothe themselves with dense ectoplasm.
By the time he had pulled up before the gateway to
the Igescu estate, night had settled. A big car inside the
gate was pouring out light from its beams up the private
road away from the gate.
A large form leaned against the gate. It turned, and
the extraordinarily broad-shouldered and lean-waisted
figure of a giant was silhouetted against the lights. It
wore a chauffeur's cap.
"I'm Mr. Wellston. I have an appointment at nine."
"Yes, sir. May I see your I.D., sir?"
The voice sounded as if it were being pounded out on
a big drum.
Childe produced several cards, a driver's license, and a
letter, all counterfeit. The chauffeur looked them over
with the aid of a pencil-thin flashlight, handed them
back through the opening in the gate, and walked off to
one side. He disappeared behind the wall. The gate
noiselessly swung inward. Childe walked in, and the gate
swung back. Glam strode up, opened the rear door for
him, and then shut it after Childe was in the back seat.
He got into the driver's seat, and Childe could see that
his ears were huge and at right angles to his head,
seemingly as big as bat's wings. This was an exaggera-
tion, of course, but they were enormous.
The drive was made in silence; the big Rolls-Royce
swung back and forth effortlessly and without any notice-
able motor noise. Its beams sprayed trees, firs, maples,
oaks, and many thick bushes trimmed into various shapes.
The light seemed to bring the vegetation into existence.
After going perhaps a half a mile as the crow flies, but two
miles back and forth, the car stopped before another wall.
This was of red brick, about nine feet high, and also had
iron spikes with barbed wire between the spikes. Glam
pressed something on the dashboard, and the gate's grille
ironwork swung inward.
Childe looked through the windows but could see only
more road and woods. Then, as the car came around the
first bend, he saw the beams reflected against four gleam-
ing eyes. The beams turned away, the eyes disappeared,
but not before he had seen two wolfish shapes slinking off
into the brush.
The car started up a steep hill and as it got near the
top, its beams struck a Victorian cupola. The drive curved
in front of the house and, as the beams swept across the
building, Childe saw that it was, as the newspaper article
had described it, rambling. The central part was obviously
older and of adobe. The wings were of wood, painted
gray, except for the red-trimmed windows, and they ex-
tended part way down the side of the hill, so that the
house seemed to be like a huge octopus squatting on a
rock.
This flashed across his mind, like a frame irrelevantly
inserted in a reel, and then it became just a monstrous
and incongruous building.
The original building had a broad porch, and the
added-on buildings had also been equipped with porches.
Most of the porch was in shadows, but the central portion
was faintly illuminated with light leaking through thin
blinds. A shadow passed across a blind.
The car stopped. Glam lunged out and opened the
door for Childe. Childe stood for a minute, listening. The
wolves had not howled once. He wondered what was to
keep them from attacking the people in the house. Glam
did not seem worried about them.
"This way, sir," Glam said and led him up the porch
and to the front door. He pressed a button, and a light over
the door came on. The door was of massive highly
polished hardwood—mahogany?—carved to represent a
scene from (it seemed likely) Hieronymous Bosch. But
a closer look convinced him that the artist had been
Spanish. There was something indefinably Iberian about
the beings (demons, monsters, humans) undergoing vari-
ous tortures or fornicating in some rather peculiar fash-
ions with some rather peculiar organs.
Glam had left his chauffeur's cap on the front seat of
the Rolls. He was dressed in a black flannel suit, and
his trousers were stuffed into his
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