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Updated: June 26, 2025
Wutzler, ready and certain of his ground, led the tortuous way through narrow and greasy galleries, along the side of a wall, and at last through an unlighted gate, free of the town. In the moonlight he stared at his companion, cackled, clapped his thighs, and bent double in unholy convulsions. "My gracious me!" He laughed immoderately. "Oh, I wait zo fearful, you kom zo fonny!"
The action, repeated multitudinously into the obscure background, exaggerated in the foreground by magnified shadows tossing and falling on the white walls, suggested the influence of some evil stratum, some vapor subtle and diabolic, crawling poisonously along the ground. Heywood stamped angrily, without effect. Wutzler stood abject, a magician impotent against his swarm of familiars.
Then his face lighted. "No, see here lower left hand." The last stroke of the brush, down in the corner, formed a loose "O. W." "From Wutzler. Must mean something." For all that, the painted lines remained a stubborn puzzle. "Something, yes. But what?" The padre pulled out a cigar, and smoking at top speed, spaced off each character with his thumb.
"It iss not moch, gentlemen," sighed Wutzler, cringing. "But I am ver' glad." Heywood flung himself into a chair. "Not dead yet, you rascal?" he cried. "And we came all the way to see you. No chow, either." "Oh, allow me," mumbled their host, in a flutter. "My she I will speak, I go bring you." He shuffled away, into some further chamber. Heywood leaned forward quickly.
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