The drive was made in silence; the big Rolls-Royce swung back andforth effortlessly and without any noticeable motor noise. Its beamssprayed trees, firs, maples, oaks, and many thick bushes trimmed into variousshapes. The lightseemed to bring the vegetation into existence. After going perhaps ahalf a mile as the crow flies, but two miles back and forth, the car stoppedbefore another wall. This was of red brick, about nine feet high, and also had ironspikes withbarbed wire between the spikes. Glam pressed something on thedashboard, and thegate's grille ironwork swung inward.

Childe looked through the windows but could see only more roadand woods. Then, as the car came around the first bend, he saw the beamsreflected againstfour gleaming eyes. The beams turned away, the eyes disappeared, butnot 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, itsbeams struck a Victorian cupola. The drive curved in front of the house and, asthe beams swept across the building, Childe saw that it was, as the newspaperarticle had described it, rambling. The central part was obviously older and ofadobe. The wings were of wood, painted gray, except for the red-trimmed windows, and theyextended part way down the side of the hill, so that the house seemedto be like a huge octopus squatting on a rock.

This flashed across his mind, like a frame irrelevantly insertedin a reel, and then it became just a monstrous and incongruous building.

The original building had a broad porch, and the added-onbuildings had alsobeen equipped with porches. Most of the porch was in shadows, but thecentral portion was faintly illuminated with light leaking through thinblinds. 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. Hewondered what was to keep them from attacking the people in the house. Glam did notseem worried about them.

"This way, sir," Glam said and led him up the porch and to thefront door. He pressed a button, and a light over the door came on. The door wasof massive highly polished hardwood--mahogany?--carved to represent a scene from(it seemedlikely) Hieronymous Bosch. But a closer look convinced him that theartist had been Spanish. There was something indefinably Iberian about thebeings (demons, monsters, humans) undergoing various tortures or fornicating in somerather peculiar fashions 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 intohis boot-tops. He unlocked the door with a large key he produced from apocket, swung the door open (it was well-oiled, no Inner-Sanctum squeaks), and bowed Childe on through. The room inside was a large (it could even becalled great) hall. Two halls, rather, because one ran along the front of the houseand halfway down it was a broad entrance to another hall which seemed torun the depth of the house. The carpets were thick and wine-colored with avery faintpattern in green. A few pieces of heavy, solid Spanish-lookingfurniture sat against the walls.

Glam asked Childe to wait while he announced him. Childe watched the giantstoop to go through the doorway to the center hall. Then he jerkedhis head to the right because he had caught a glimpse of somebody down at the farend justgoing around the corner. He was startled, because he had seen no oneat that end when he came in. Now he saw the back of a tall woman, the floor- length fullblack skirt, white flesh of the back revealed in the V of the cut, high-piledblack hair, a tall black comb.

He felt cold and, for a second, disoriented.

He had no more time to think about the woman then, because hishost came to greet him. Igescu was a tall slim man with thick, wavy, brown-blondhair, large, bright green eyes, pointed features, a large curving nose and adimple in hisright cheek. The moustache was gone. He seemed to be about sixty-fiveyears old, a vigorous athletic sixty-five. He wore a dark-blue business suit. His tie was black with a faint bluish symbol in its center. Childe could not make it out; the outlines seemed to be fluid, to change shape as Igescu changed position.

His voice was deep and pleasant, and he spoke with only a tingeof foreignpronunciation. He shook hands with Childe. His hands were large andstrong-looking and his grip was powerful. His hand was cold but notabnormallyso. He was a very amiable and easygoing host but made it clear thathe intended to allow his guest to remain only an hour. He asked Childe a fewquestions abouthis work and the magazine he represented. Childe gave him glibanswers; he wasprepared for more interrogation than he got.

Glam had disappeared somewhere. Igescu immediately took Childe ona guidedtour. This lasted about five minutes and was confined to a few rooms on the first floor. Childe could not get much idea of the layout of thehouse. Theyreturned to a large room off the central hall where Igescu askedChilde to sit down. This was also fitted with Spanish-type furniture and a grandpiano. Therewas a fireplace, above the mantel of which was a large oil painting. Childe, sipping on an excellent brandy, listened to his host but studied theportrait. The subject was a beautiful young woman dressed in Spanish costumeand holding alarge ivory-yellowish fan. She had unusually heavy eyebrows andextremely darkeyes, as if the painter had invented a paint able to concentrateblackness. There was, a faint smile about the lips--not Mona Lisa-ish, however-the smile seemed to indicate a determination to--what? Studying the lips, Childe thoughtthat there was something nasty about the smile, as if there were adeep hatredthere and a desire to get revenge. Perhaps the brandy and hissurroundings madehim think that, or perhaps the artist was the nasty and hateful oneand he had projected onto the innocent blankness of the subject his ownfeelings. Whateverthe truth, the artist had talent. He had given the painting theauthenticity ofmore than life.

He interrupted Igescu to ask him about the painting. Igescu didnot seem annoyed.

"The artist's name was Krebens," he said. "If you get close tothe painting, you'll see it in miniscule letters at the left-hand corner. I have afairly goodknowledge of art history and local history, but I have never seenanother painting by him. The painting came with the house; it is said to beof Dolores del Osorojo. I am convinced that it is, since I have seen thesubject."

He smiled. Childe felt cold again. He said, "Just after I came in, I saw awoman going around the corner down the hall. She was dressed in old- fashioned Spanish clothes. Could that be...?"

Igescu said, "Only three women live in this house. My secretary, mygreat-grandmother, and a house guest. None of them wear the clothingyoudescribe."

"The ghost seems to have been seen by quite a few people," Childesaid. "You don't seem to be upset, however."

Igescu shrugged and said, "Three of us, Holyani, Glam, and I, have seen Dolores many times, although always at a distance and fleetingly. Sheis no illusion or delusion. But she seems harmless, and I find it easier toput upwith her than with many flesh and blood people."

"I wish you had permitted me to bring a camera. This house isvery colorful, and if I could have caught her on film...or have you tried that andfound out she doesn't photograph?"

"She didn't when I first moved in," Igescu said. "But I did shoother and the developed films show her quite clearly. The furniture behind hershowed dimly, but she's much more opaque than she used to be. Given time, and enoughpeople to feed off..."

He waved his hand as if that would complete the sentence. Childewondered if Igescu were putting him on. He said, "Could I see that photo?"