Bram Stoker

, what a wealth of sor­row in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy!

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things

What I saw was the Count’s head com­ing out from the win­dow. I did not

I was not alone. The room was the same, un­changed in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the bril­liant moon­light, my own foot­step

Good night, every­body.

“Now, Mr. Bilder, can you ac­count in any way for the es­cape of the wolf?”

“Well, sir,” he said, with a sus­pi­cious sort of mod­esty, “I think I can; but I don’t know as ’ow you’d be sat­is­fied with the the­ory.”

“Cer­tainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the an­im­als from ex­per­i­ence, can’t haz­ard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?”

“Well then, sir, I ac­counts for it this way; it seems to me that ’ere wolf es­caped—simply be­cause he wanted to get out.”

“My opin­ion is this: that ’ere wolf is a-’idin’ of, some­wheres. The gard’ner wot didn’t re­mem­ber said he was a-gal­lopin’ north­ward faster than a horse could go; but I don’t be­lieve him, for, yer see, sir, wolves don’t gal­lop no more nor dogs does, they not bein’ built that way. Wolves is fine things in a story­book, and I des­say when they gets in packs and does be chivyin’ somethin’ that’s more afeared than they is they can make a devil of a noise and chop it up, whatever it is. But, Lor’ bless you, in real life a wolf is only a low creature, not half so clever or bold as a good dog; and not half a quarter so much fight in ’im. This one ain’t been used to fightin’ or even to providin’ for his­self, and more like he’s some­where round the Park a-’idin’ an’ a-shiv­erin’ of, and, if he thinks at all, won­derin’ where he is to get his break­fast from; or maybe he’s got down some area and is in a coal-cel­lar. My eye, won’t some cook get a rum start when she sees his green eyes a-shin­ing at her out of the dark! If he can’t get food he’s bound to look for it, and may­hap he may chance to light on a butcher’s shop in time. If he doesn’t, and some nurse­maid goes a-walkin’ orf with a sol­dier, leavin’ of the hin­fant in the per­am­bu­lator—well, then I shouldn’t be sur­prised if the census is one babby the less. That’s all.”

“God bless me!” he said. “If there ain’t old Ber­sicker come back by ’is­self!”

He went to the door and opened it; a most un­ne­ces­sary pro­ceed­ing it seemed to me. I have al­ways thought that a wild an­imal never looks so well as when some obstacle of pro­nounced dur­ab­il­ity is between us; a per­sonal ex­per­i­ence has in­tens­i­fied rather than di­min­ished that idea.

What are we to do for someone who will open his veins for her?”

“What’s the mat­ter with me, any­how?”

The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought re­lief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quin­cey Mor­ris. Van Helsing star­ted an­grily at the first sound, but his face softened and a glad look came into his eyes as I cried out: “Quin­cey Mor­ris!” and rushed to­wards him with out­stretched hands.

“What brought you here?” I cried as our hands met.

“I guess Art is the cause.”

He handed me a tele­gram:―

“Have not heard from Se­ward for three days, and am ter­ribly anxious. Can­not leave. Father still in same con­di­tion. Send me word how Lucy is. Do not delay.—Holm­wood.”

“I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have only to tell me what to do.”

Van Helsing strode for­ward, and took his hand, look­ing him straight in the eyes as he said:―

“A brave man’s blood is the best thing on this earth when a wo­man is in trouble. You’re a man and no mis­take. Well, the devil may work against us for all he’s worth, but God sends us men when we want them.”

He was sur­prised at my know­ledge of the trains off­hand, but he does not know that I have made up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in case he is in a hurry.