"Help! Help!" she shouted. The door was jerked open and a man stared out at us; the rays of the lamp suspended from the ceiling brought out his tall, gaunt figure in bold relief. Despite my excitement, I noted that he was wearing a tattered dressing gown, the front of which was stained as from acid or chemicals.

"What is wanted?" he demanded. I halted him with a gesture. Leaping inside, I dragged Betty after me and, hastily slamming the door, I plunged home the bolt.

"Attacked by... wild beast!" I managed to ejaculate pantingly. "Drove it off... may be following us..."

HE turned and looked at us curiously. His eyes were sunken, his face so emaciated as to give his countenance a skull-like appearance.

"Beast?" he exclaimed. "You say that you were attacked by some sort of animal? What do you mean? There have been stories..."

He led the way into a small study. It was the room, through the window of which we had glimpsed the light, for the shade was partly raised. The walls were lined with built-in bookcases, filled to overflowing. In the center of the room was a large table upon which were piled other books and manuscripts over which he had evidently been working when we made our precipitate entrance.

He motioned us to chairs and turned to us wonderingly.

"I do not understand...?" he mused. "There have been strange tales, as I say. I have discounted them as silly rumors. You are certain...?"

I pointed to Betty's torn garments—to my coat ripped by the creature's sharp nails as if by a knife.

"Our appearance bears out my statement," I snapped. Then, as he seated himself at the desk, I hastily sketched what had happened—the breaking down of the automobile, our long tramp through the chilling cold and darkness, of the thing that had trailed us for hours, the discovery of the dead woman among the underbrush and the sudden attack of the fur-coated monster a moment later.

The old man stared at us questioningly, his glance shifting from one to the other. Taking a huge pipe from the desk, he stuffed it with tobacco and, lighting it, took a short turn about the room.

"It seems fantastic... unbelievable," he said finally, stopping his restless pacing for a moment. "Yet, as you have said, your appearance bears out your statement. If you will pardon the assertion, I have been wondering if the cold... and your privations... have not..."

He stopped in the middle of the sentence, allowing the remainder to go unsaid.

"But we will not quibble now," he smiled. "The young woman is almost spent. Let me offer you some refreshment. My name is Bixby—Professor Bixby—a poor scholar come to this old place to work out certain theories. I wanted a place where I might have solitude. I can offer you but little, yet I do not want to appear unhospitable. I—"

Betty screamed. "The window!" she gasped. "The... thing!" She leaned forward, her face twitching with excitement, her eyes filled with terror.

Bixby whirled as I leaped to my feet. Pressed against the glass was a flat, hairy face, the thick lips drawn back over fang-like teeth, the matted hair hanging down over a tiny forehead. The creature's eye—bloodshot, flashing with anger—glared at us malevolently. Bixby gave a sudden exclamation and took a step forward. The diabolical creature leaped backward; we heard the crash of its body as it dashed through the underbrush.

For an instant the old scholar appeared petrified. Then he rushed to the door opening into the hall and clapped his hands together in a sort of signal.

"Jarbo!" he rasped excitedly. "Come... quickly!"

The summons was answered by a huge black—a powerful, broad-shouldered creature with a tiny head and a face almost as evil as the accursed thing that had glared at us through the window. For an instant his glance hovered over us appraisingly, shifted to Betty's slender form—then turned reluctantly again to the old man. Bixby was addressing him rapidly in some foreign jargon. At the finish of the speech the black nodded and, with another glance at Betty, shuffled out of sight.

"Jarbo is an Algerian and speaks but little English," our host explained. "He is absolutely fearless. I have told him to go after the creature— he will be armed, of course. Meanwhile I have sent him for refreshment."

He resumed his restless pacing, stopping again and again to glance at us. A question seemed on the point of his tongue—a question he seemed averse to giving voice to. The big black came back into the room carrying a tray on which was a decanter of wine, some bread and cold meat, thinly sliced.

Bixby apologized.

"We eat sparingly, Jarbo and I," he said as the black deposited the tray on the table. "When a man reaches my age, he is apt to overstuff himself."

Again I noted the quick glance of the black man rest on Betty's slender loveliness. Bixby muttered something to him. He grunted an unintelligible reply and shuffled out. A moment later we heard the front door slam. Bixby scowled, then waved his hand toward the meager fare.

"Help yourselves, my friends," he said. "I dined hours ago."

We lost no time in accepting his offer. Despite our weariness, we were very hungry, for we had not eaten since noon and our strength had been sapped by the hardships we had gone through. The wine dissipated the chill that had permeated to our bones, racing through our veins like molten metal, filling us with a delicious warmth that was succeeded by a feeling of lassitude.

In spite of my efforts to control myself, I caught myself yawning and a great desire for sleep swept over me. I glanced at Betty; her curly blond head was pressed against the cushion of the chair and her eyes were closed. From the rise and fall of her breast, I knew that she had given way to the stupor I was fighting against. Bixby was watching us, his saturnine face twisted into a grin of triumph. I tried to speak to him; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth...

Then consciousness left me.

I WAS in a great pit from which I was struggling to escape. Time after time I almost reached the top; my fingers reached up to pull myself out, but I always slipped back again... down... down... never reaching the bottom. Sometimes I floated on thin air—a gossamer, wraith-like thing of feathery lightness; again I was stone-heavy, sinking like a plummet.

Someone was screaming—shrieking wildly for help. I knew subconsciously that it was Betty calling to me—that I was fruitlessly trying to get to her. I tried to open my eyes. The lids seemed glued down. Again and again I almost succeeded, only to sink back again into that bottomless pit of abysmal blackness from which I was struggling to escape. I was unable to move hand or foot; I wondered in a hazy, impersonal sort of way if I was paralyzed.

Something within my brain suddenly snapped and I was awake, pulling at the bonds which held me. Somewhere in the distance Betty was screaming. This time there was no hallucination—it was real. As consciousness swept over me I realized that I was bound; I was lying in the darkness, trussed like a fowl for the market.

And Betty—my wife of a day—was appealing to me, begging me to come to her assistance.

"Bob! Help me, Bob! Please... please help me!"

The inertia was dragging me down again. I fought it off and struggled to collect my scattered faculties. A tiny buzzer in my brain kept telling me to wake up—to go to her rescue. Yet I was unable to move a muscle. It was an effort to even think. She screamed again as if in pain. I jerked at my thongs with a desperation born of despair. Something gave way and I felt myself dropping... .

I BROUGHT up with a thud, my head crashing against some solid object that stunned me for a second. The realization swept over me that my bindings were a bit looser. I twisted my body; every movement sent a twinge of pain racing through my muscles, but each jerk added to my freedom. Finally I managed to get one hand free. I reached out exploringly. My groping fingers told me that I had been tied to an ancient iron bedstead, the rope was looped around the head posts. In my struggles I had pulled the rickety affair apart.