ork, prior to the war, had not been wasted. The
brass-buttoned fools!

Serenely unconscious that he was at liberty by explicit orders, because
the Department of Justice did not care to trap a werewolf before
ascertaining where the pack was and what the kill, he proceeded
leisurely to the corner, turned, and broke into a run, which carried
him to a drug store in Eightieth Street. Here he was joined by two men,
apparently coal heavers by the look of their hands and faces.

"They will take him to a hospital. Find where, then notify me. Remember,
this is your business, and woe to you if you fail. Where is it?" One of
the men extended an object wrapped in ordinary grocer's paper.

"Ha! That's good. I shall enjoy myself presently. Remember: telephone me
the moment you learn where they take him. He is still alive, bunglers!
And you came away empty-handed."

"There was nothing on him. We searched."

"He has hidden them in one of those rooms. I'll attend to that later.
Watch the hospital for an hour or so, then telephone for information
regarding his condition. Is that motor for me? Very good. Remember!"

Inside the taxicab the squat man patted the object on his knees, and
chuckled from time to time audibly. It would be worth all that journey,
all he had gone through since dawn that morning. Stefani Gregor! After
these seven long years--the man who had betrayed him! To reach into his
breast and squeeze his heart as one might squeeze a bit of cheese! Many
things to tell, many pictures to paint. He rode far downtown, wound in
and out of the warehouse district for a while, then dismissed the taxi
and proceeded on foot to his destination--a decayed brick mansion of the
40's sandwiched in between two deserted warehouses. In the hall of the
first landing a man sat in a chair under the gas, reading a newspaper.
At the approach of the squat man he sprang to his feet, but a phrase
dissipated his apprehension and he nodded toward a door.

"Unlock it for me and see that I am not disturbed."

Presently the squat man stood inside the room, which was dark. He struck
a match and peered about for the candle. The light discovered a room
barren of all furniture excepting the table upon which stood the candle,
and a single chair. In this chair was a man, bound. He was small and
dapper, his gray hair swept back a la Liszt. His chin was on his breast,
his body limp. Apparently the bonds alone held him in the chair.

The squat man laid his b