When I returned to my hotel a scant quarter hour before dawn a telegram from Art Holmwood awaited me, almost as though he'd found out what had occurred between Bertrice and myself.
I experienced a very strong twinge, if not of guilt, then of high discomfort. Of course, it was impossible he should know, but the foolish notion galled until I opened and read his message.
"Professor and Jack visit tomorrow to stay overnight. Excellent time for your talk. Please advise if you're free. Holmwood."
This was damned annoying.
I scribbled a reply, cursing mildly.
"Expect me in study after dinner. Q."
The world and its mundane concerns still existed. For a time I'd quite happily forgotten such dreary worries as I lay next to Bertrice, watching her sleep. She'd roused a little as the approach of sunrise forced me from her side to dress. She watched, her eyes heavy with drowse, a smile on her lips. We shared a loving farewell kiss, then she slipped back into deep slumber. I wanted to ask her to marry me right then and there, but it would have to wait. She'd want to be full awake when I proposed.
Yes—she had stated that she never wanted to marry, didn't even believe in marriage, but women can change their minds easy enough. I was wildly in love with her, and that fact must and would count for much.
Tomorrow night I had hoped to find a late-closing jewelers where I could order a suitable engagement ring. I'd already composed in my head a telegram to Art to excuse a delay for my second visit. Instead, I had to write to Bertrice care of the music hall—as I'd foolishly taken no note of her street address—and hoped she would receive it and understand.
"Very much regret that wretched duty calls me away to Ring. May we please meet the following evening? Your true and devoted friend, Quincey."
I also wrote instructions for a bouquet of roses to be delivered along with the telegram and paid over a suitable amount of cash. The night clerk who would see to the task seemed less than enthused, giving me to doubt he was up to the job. I forced my influence upon him to make sure he would remember and carry things out to the letter even if he had to take the telegram and flowers to the theater himself. Then I had to dash upstairs, racing against the sun, but confident of winning. So enthralled was I in good feeling that I forgot my dislike for absolute darkness when materializing inside my box. A pleasant hum had manifested itself between my ears. It meant I was in love, and that nothing else really mattered. I could deal with all obstacles. Easily.
The hum was yet there when I awoke and slipped out again. I gave in to a hedonistic stretch, resisting the urge to run up the walls and do handsprings on the ceiling. How alive I felt, far more so than when I walked in the sun. All was right with the universe or would be after I'd spared a few light moments to deal with it. Once finished with my meeting at Ring I could turn my entire focus upon Bertrice—happy prospect.
I readied myself for the train ride, again donning the fore-and-aft traveling cap and Inverness, the half-mask in my valise of earth along with the wool scarf. While I did not think such a disguise would be necessary this time, it seemed wise to be prepared.
Thoughts of Bertrice filled my mind and heart during the trip, seeming to shorten the time. It's amazing how love can make a clock's hour hand spin fast as a top or slow the minute hand to a complete halt. I would have much preferred to be waiting by the stage door for her, but could not shirk my friendship and obligation to Art. He'd obviously gone to some effort to bring Jack and Van Helsing to Ring, the least I could do was turn up and provide a bit of post-prandial entertainment.
My humor darkened, though, the closer I got to my goal. By the time I'd left the local station and walked through the gates of Ring, my mood was quite sober regarding what was to come. The professor would be a tough nut to crack. He was utterly set in his ideas about vampires, and those had been right—insofar as our pursuit of Dracula had been concerned. Where I stood in his view of things promised to be on most shaky ground. He had years of learning and research on his side, I had only myself and who I was, and somehow that would have to be enough to convince him that not all vampires were evil incarnate.
Also sharp in my mind was Bertrice's reaction to what I'd told her of the professor. His work that terrible night in the Westenra crypt now seemed to be subtle and ugly manipulation. I'd been right there, and part of me knew that he had acted in good faith, but another part was horrified at what he'd put Art through. There was no taking it back, nor was there anything I could do about it since all was past and over.
Bertrice might give the professor a piece of her mind, about it though, should she ever meet him. After the way she flew off the handle last night I wouldn't put it past her to do more than that. She possessed a powerful temper and an acid tongue when it came to the righteous defense of her brother. Woe to anyone who crossed her concerning him.
The lamps in Art's study were on, the curtains open. I took that as an invitation and, leaving the valise hidden in the fir stand, covered the open ground to the window. In less than a quarter minute I'd gone up the stone flanks of the great old house and made my entry through the tiny cracks in the framing around the glass.
I floated for a moment, listening as best I could with my muffled hearing for signs of occupancy, finally determining the room was safely empty. Going solid again, I found the place generally unchanged from my last visit. Brandy, whiskey, and sherry bottles awaited on the table, along with the gasogene and several glasses. A carved humidor Art brought from India was also there, a souvenir of our tiger hunt with the reckless Colonel Sebastian Moran. What a time that had been. While everyone else sensibly stayed atop their elephants, Moran had descended to the ground to track his quarry, which is the most dangerous way of going after tiger.
Of course, Art and I could not resist the urge to follow. How the mahouts had stared, eyes huge in their dark faces as they called on their gods to spare us from our foolishness. Things had turned out well, though. Moran bagged a twelve-foot man-eater with one shot and our celebration had gone on well into the wee hours. He'd given us each a humidor as a remembrance of the occasion. Mine was still in a shipping crate somewhere in Galveston.
Van Helsing was no tiger in that sense, though to me he was every bit as dangerous. But this confrontation also must end in a celebration—I fervently hoped. I summoned up every shred of optimism in my being to square myself for the task. After all, things had gone well enough with Art. Van Helsing and I did not have so long a friendship to draw upon, but he was a man of science and trained in logic. By presenting my case to him properly, he would have to accept me as harmless.
Should that fail, I'd hypnotize him.
If he'd not drunk too much wine with dinner.
I regarded the bottles on the table with a raised eyebrow and considered moving them elsewhere for the time being.
A noise down the hallway arrested my attention before I could act, and I slipped quickly toward the windows. They were of the bay type, their curtains hung before them in such as way as to create a private alcove when pulled closed. I unhitched the holding ropes on each side of both and drew them shut, sheltering behind the one nearest the table.
Though it was not honorable to hide like this and eavesdrop, I wanted to get a feel for how the land lay before making my appearance. I could simply vanish and hover close, but did not want to chance missing a single word due to the muffling effect on my hearing when in that non-solid condition.
The study door was thrust open and two people rushed noisily in. I ventured a peek through a sliver of a gap in the curtains. It was Van Helsing, looking to be in a hell of a hurry and in charge of one of Art's female servants.
"Lose not a moment!" His voice fairly whip-cracked with authority.
The sound flooded me with an unsettling mix of strong emotions and memories for which I'd not adequately prepared. The force of it took the strength from my legs and I sat, rather too quickly, upon the window seat.
"Seal these as you did the others," he said. "Be haste! Be haste!"
What the devil was going on here? I tried for a better look, but in that instant the maidservant threw aside the curtain of my hiding place. We gaped in horrified disbelief at each other, then she let out a scream that would peel paint off a wall. She backed up until she all but fell against Van Helsing.
"It's 'im!" she screeched, pointing at me. Clutched in her fist was a good-sized clove of garlic. All at once I understood.
Damnation, this was not how I'd planned for things to proceed. Art must have let the cat out of the bag somehow.
I stood and raised a placatory hand. "It's all right, Professor. I can explain—"
But he wasn't interested. From his frock coat he drew forth a familiar-looking metal container and quickly opened it. He reverently produced a Holy Wafer and held it before him like a weapon. The maid slipped past him and ran howling for help.
"Depart from this house!" he boomed. "I command it in the name of God!"
I hesitated; for the life of me this was one time I just didn't know what to do. "Professor Van Helsing, there has been a mistake. I am not what you think—"
"Trouble this house no more, depart!"
"Will you calm down and hear me out? I'm not leaving until we've talked. Where's Art?"
"In a safe place." If he was nonplused at my lack of response to his orders, he didn't show it. "You will never harm him, this I have sworn."
"What are you on about?"
"Depart in the name of God!" Then he repeated those same words in Latin, making the sign of the cross.
"When I'm damned good and ready! Professor, I am not in the least like Dracula, so have the kindness to give me a listen before you pop a blood vessel."
"Your words are the devil's lies."
This wasn't going to go well, not unless I could get his attention. Right now he was too wound up to hear anything. "If that were so, then I'd not be able to do this . . ." I stepped forward and gently closed my hand over the Host.
That struck him speechless. For good measure I began saying the Lord's Prayer as loud as I could.
"Blasphemy!" he whispered, going white with shock. He released the Host and backed toward the door.
I hurried to get behind him and closed it with a bang, turning the key with my free hand. There was some commotion going on down the hall. The maid's cries must have drawn a crowd.
"Professor, if I was what you think me to be, I'd be howling in pain now. Instead I stand before you with this—" I held up the Wafer. For good measure I kissed it. "Does that not make you the least bit curious to find out why?"
"I will have no trade in your lies and tricks, be gone, image of our dear friend."
"No!"
And so we stood at an impasse, me trying to make him see sense and him with his eyes squeezed shut against it.
I stepped forward, holding the Wafer toward him as he had done to me. "Doesn't this prove that I am not an evil thing?"
He snorted and gestured at the mirror that overlooked the room. As before with Art, it showed the professor to be alone. "Soulless wretch. You mesmerize, you deceive us, you make what we see in our minds, and we believe the false words. You are the falsest of the false, using the form of poor Quincey Morris to trick our better nature. I know you, devil. I am not to believe the hell's game you try to play. Depart."
Well, if he thought I was already doing some hypnotizing, then perhaps I should not disappoint him. "Professor, I want you to listen to me. Listen very closely to my words . . ."
I got a reaction, but not the one I expected. Instead of his eyes glazing, he came all over in a rage. He cast about, spied a Bible on a table, and grabbed it up, holding it out. It must have turned into straw-plucking time for him. How he thought that might help when the Host Itself failed I could not imagine, but two could play at this.
I took out my crucifix from beneath my clothes and made sure he saw it.
He looked baffled, but the anger returned to him quick enough. "Deceiver!"
"Van Helsing, for God's sake settle down! Believe what your eyes tell you. I am the same Quincey Morris you knew before. Open up your mind, you hard-headed Dutchman, and think!"
He got quiet a minute and did some thinking, or perhaps it was more like calculation. "If you are the true Quincey Morris, you would not hold me here a prisoner."
"You're no prisoner, I just want some privacy. What has happened? Where's Art? What did he tell you about me that got you so het up?"
"You exist, that is what hets me up."
"But you think I'm like Dracula?"
"A young one, with not so many sins upon your head, so the holy things do not work as they should."
"They should all work equally well no matter what. They worked well enough on poor Lucy." What bitter words those were to speak.
"Because she was defiled from the hurting of the children."
"But—oh, never mind. Use your common sense, Professor. All the things you told us about vampires means that this should send me running for the hills. But here I am with no harm done. If this stuff doesn't affect me, it means I am not anyone you need fear."
"I do not fear you. I have the sorry for you, and swear I will end your imprisoned soul's suffering as soon as may be."
"Like hell you will!" But I knew he would do just that unless I could turn him aside. "My soul is the same as it ever was, and if you can think of a way for me to prove it to you, then I'll take any test you care to hand out. I've tried saying the Lord's Prayer, you want me to sing a hymn? That you may regret as I've no voice for it. I'll march into church and read whatever Bible passage you please or—"
"Stop!"
I stopped. And waited. "Well?"
Anger still clouded his face. "Your games will not work on me, vampire. Be gone and trouble us not."
"Just what in tarnation did Art tell you?"
"You deceived Arthur, for he wants to believe. The tricks you did to gain his trust will not work on me."
"How did he even come to tell you? I swore him to silence." That's what really troubled. Art had ever been a man of his word.
"Knowledge is power, and I will not empower you more. Be gone."
"Where is he? Get him up here—"
A frantic banging at the door and rattling of the knob interrupted him.
"Professor? Are you there?" With a thrill I recognized Jack Seward's voice.
"Yes!" cried the professor. "And so is he! He has locked us in."
I yelled louder. "Jack? It's me, Quincey. I'll let you in if you'll talk some sense into this—"
"Quincey? Oh, God." Even muffled by the intervening door I heard the pain in his voice. "Then it is true."
More banging on the door, then he tried the lock. "Professor, I can't open it, the key is still in it on your side."
"Jack? Did you hear me?"
"Listen to him not!"
"Professor!"
We were all shouting at once and not any of us doing a damn bit of good to straighten out the situation. It would have been laughable but for the fact that Van Helsing posed a truly serious threat. If he came across me during the day he would show no mercy. Indeed, he thought putting a stake through my heart to be the height of compassion. He might even get Art to do his dirty work for him again.
I slammed the flat of my hand against the door, which made a hellish racket and brought a pause to theirs. "Jack Seward!"
Blessed silence for a moment as I glared at the professor, daring him to speak again. He held his peace, but still simmered hot.
I tried again. "Jack?"
"Yes? What do you want?"
"For you to calm down and hear me out, dammit. The professor is too set in his ways to listen, I hope you will be . . . be more obliging."
"If you are truly Quincey, then open this door."
"I am Quincey, and I'll open the door, but I want you to keep a cool head when I do."
He made no reply. Maybe he was thinking it over, not wanting to make a promise he couldn't keep, but I was willing to trust him over my present company. Besides, I was getting almighty tired of looking at Van Helsing's scowl.
I turned the key and moved quickly to the side to allow the door a clear swing. In my hand I still held the Host, and my crucifix yet hung from my neck. Such was the sight greeting Jack Seward when he cautiously entered the room.
He looked older, more careworn. How that last adventure of ours had taken its toll on us. He was dressed in evening clothes, come to Ring with the professor for one of Art's excellent dinners.
"Quincey?" His lips trembled.
I nodded. "It is I, as you can see. You see this, too?" I lifted the Host and his eyes widened.
"Impossible!" he whispered.
Van Helsing stepped between us. "It is a lie, friend John. Do not let him beguile you as he did Arthur."
My patience was thin as it could get, and it made me rude to the point of bellowing. "Professor, shut the hell up and let the man make up his own mind!"
The explosion was sufficient to hush him a moment. I turned to Jack. "Now look at me, for God's sake! If you believe in the power of this Wafer, then you must believe that I am harmless."
"I—I . . ."
"Jack, what has happened? Did Art tell you about my visit?"
He shook his head. "Not in so many words."
"What, then? Mind reading? I asked him to keep quiet to prevent everyone throwing six kinds of conniption fits and going off in all directions. Where is he?"
"Tell him not!" said the professor.
Jack stood flatfooted, and from the agonized look on his face he didn't know which way to jump. I hated putting him in such a fix. It was hard enough on him to have to deal with my return from the grave, let alone choosing sides.
"All right," I said. "Never you mind, let's just get this saddle over the horse first, then worry about where to ride. The professor thinks I've come back from hell itself, but as you can see that's not a place I've been to yet. He doesn't—"
"Do not let him fool you, friend John. In all other things have you not trusted me? For the sake of your soul—"
I cut him off again. "Professor, I've seen men shot dead for less lip than what you're flapping at me now. If you want to end up with your head thumping the floor like a rubber ball, you just keep interrupting. How can you look at me and not—no, just forget it. Your mind's all made up. You know you're the smartest man in the world when it comes to vampires. Jack . . ." I appealed to my friend. "You gonna believe your own eyes or not?"
He made one mirthless laugh. "I can believe my ears. Only Quincey P. Morris of Texas would speak like that. Professor, it is clear to me that he's not like poor Lucy. She was dreadfully changed, turned into that . . . that monster. Quincey is the same as ever he was."
The professor was reproachful. "Did not Lucy tempt Arthur with the bond of their love? So does this devil tempt you with the memory of old friendship."
"I can't believe that. That thing we saw in the graveyard filled me with horror and disgust. I have no such feeling now. Let us hear him out. There may be truth to Art's rav—to what Art said."
"What's wrong with Art that he's not here?" I demanded. "Did he take sick?"
"He's not . . . feeling well." Jack wouldn't meet my eye.
"What do you mean?"
"He's been under a great strain these months. It finally overburdened him, and he collapsed."
"But he was fine the other night! When I left he was cheerful and chipper as ever."
"I'm afraid that your visit might well have been the very thing that sent him over."
"How can that be? If anything he was—take me to him, I must see for myself how he's doing."
"Quincey, he's in no fit state for visitors. We think he's fallen into a raving fit of brain fever, and there's nothing to be done until he pulls himself out of it."
My sails ran out of wind. I backed off a little. "That doesn't sound right. Art can get nerved up about some things, but when the hammer falls, he's more steady than any anvil."
"This time the anvil broke, not the hammer."
"Just how bad off is he?"
"I can't say, not without more—"
"Enough!" snapped Van Helsing. "Do you dice with the devil for your friend?"
Jack was shocked. "Really, sir!"
"Have done with this. He uses your affection against you."
"It seems to me that he's showing a great concern for Art. What possible evil motive can he have in that?"
"One you may perceive not as yet, but in time he would all to his favor turn."
"Forgive me, Professor, no one holds you in greater esteem than I, but that is utter nonsense."
"Hold your horses," I said. "Both of you stop before you say too much you don't mean. We were all friends together once, and may be so again—"
Van Helsing gave a derisive snort.
"But that won't happen if we're all fighting like a pack of coyotes over who howls last. Nothing good ever came of such squabbling. Jack, you got a job ahead of you convincing him to listen, but don't you ever forget how far you two go back. Professor, you'll think what you want about me and toss common sense out the window, but remember the respect you've always given Jack not only as a friend but as a colleague. He just might know what he's talking about."
Jack took it well enough, but none of this sat too well with Van Helsing. His face went so red I thought steam would blow from his ears. I could not understand why he was being so pigheaded. He was a smart man, but here he was, just paces away from me, and absolutely refusing to accept what his eyes told him.
"Professor . . ." began Jack.
"Nein! This no more will I hear. No more either should you hear. Even this little of his lying words much damage has done. You doubt me, but you will see. You must! But pray God that none others shall die by his hand while you swim in the doubting sea."
"Who's died?" I wanted to know.
"Those wretches from which you slake your unholy thirst, devil."
"Oh, good God! Didn't Art tell you I only ever feed from animals?"
"You do?" asked Jack, surprised. "But I thought—"
"I know what you thought, but you can cut that idea from the herd. Jack, I am a different breed from Dracula. If he was a war-horse in full armor, then I'm a no more than a Sunday riding pony."
"But this is fascinating. Professor, there is sense in this! We can—"
But Van Helsing had given up on talk. He'd sidled over to a wall display of Comanche war lances Art had acquired while in Texas. He grabbed one up, and came at me. Jack let out with a cry and jumped on him, trying to take it away. I had enough presence of mind to put down the Host before stepping in as well. The three of us danced this way and that, each trying to gain control of the lance, all grunting and cursing like mad.
I managed to get a solid grip on the professor's wrists and pulled his hands off; Jack staggered away in startled triumph, holding the lance high. It had a stone head bound to it, the edges chipped wickedly sharp, and could have sliced any of us open as easily as a modern metal blade.
Van Helsing and I wrestled around; he shouted a lot of words that were far outside my very narrow German vocabulary. I used some choice American terms as I struggled to get behind him and pull his elbows together. My strength was greater, but I was trying to avoid injuring him. He wasn't making any of this easy on himself.
"Hold still, carn-sarn it, or I'll hog-tie you with the curtain rope!"
Another stream of bad-tempered German or Dutch. His collar popped open, his shirt pulled nearly out of his trousers, and his jalousies had snapped clear of their buttons, threatening the proper placement of those trousers.
"Quincey! Professor! Stop it! Stop this instant!" Jack hovered just out of reach of the struggle, clutching the lance.
I was willing to leave off, but Van Helsing was stubborn, fighting like his life depended on it. Sooner or later he'd tire out, but I worried for his heart lasting the course.
Jack Seward quit shouting and took action. He went to the desk where stood a vase of greenhouse flowers next to Lucy's photograph. He tore the flowers clear and dashed the water square into his former teacher's face. I got a good splashing as well, but it was worth it. The professor sputtered and ceased to struggle. I dragged him over to a chair by the fire and pushed him down onto it.
"Damn, Jack," I said, ineffectually swabbing my face with a handkerchief. From the open doorway I heard a nervous titter. The maid, along with what seemed to be most of the household staff was there, the whole herd clustered close together to watch. I scowled and slammed the door in their faces. "Now we will be the talk of the county. I hope your reputation can stand it."
Jack stared at me, mouth opened, then snapped it shut and put the lance back up on the wall. "My God!" he said, rounding on us. "Professor, what in heaven's name were you thinking?"
Van Helsing—for once—had nothing to say for himself. He glared defiance, after he rubbed the water from his eyes.
I put some distance between us, going over to Jack. He seemed to have caught his breath, but nothing more; there was a lost look to him. Well did I understand the feeling. I clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"It'll be all right, old partner, some things just take a passel of time to get through."
He gave me a sharp eye, searching my features, for what I could not say. I gave him a wink, grinning. Then all of a sudden, his face twisted, and he threw his arms about me in a bear's hug. "It is you!"
"None other, I swear," I said, pounding his back and laughing. Relief surged over me. My other friend had returned.
"But how? Did Dracula—" He pulled away to check my face again.
"No, he's got nothing to do with it. Didn't Art tell you?"
"He was in no condition. He babbled bits and pieces, enough to put the wind up myself and the professor. He took charge and had the servants here running about rubbing garlic on all the windows."
I shook my head. "Guess I can't blame him, seeing the confines of his experience. You have a tangle with a vampire as wicked as Dracula, it kind of colors your view. But as God is my witness, Jack, I am not like him."
"Then what are you? And how did you come to be this way? I've a thousand questions."
"So did Art. Where is he? No, don't answer, it might set him off again." I gestured toward Van Helsing, but his chair was empty, the study door just closing. Jack started after him, but I held him back. "Where will he go?"
"Back to the asylum, I expect. I hope he'll speak to me again. Everything just got so out of control . . ."
"You did right, but he's gonna be mighty angry. He's not the kind to forgive too quick, if at all, and now he may think you've gone over to the devil's own side."
He groaned. "What am I to do?"
"I don't rightly know, but these things have a way of working out. After he's cooled down some you'll be able to talk to him. He might not listen to you, though. He sure as hell wasn't hearing me."
"But why? He's the most logical reasoner I've ever known."
"Mend your fence first, and figure the rest out later. What about Art? Did you take him to the asylum?" I was only making a guess, but it was a good one.
Jack went very sober. "Not yet, but we plan to; it's the best place for me to care for him. He's still here in the house."
"He is? Then I want to see him."
"I'd advise against it. When we arrived here this afternoon he was very agitated. His eyes were so bright I thought he'd caught a fever, but he was in a very merry, happy mood, as though he'd finally broken free of the grief that's held him all these months. He'd invited the professor down for supper, you see, and I decided to tag along and make a party of it. All was well, until just after dinner. Art kept running to the windows and peering out. Then he excused himself and went upstairs for a bit. He never returned. Just when I was curious enough to go find out why we heard such an awful shrieking laughter from his room."
"What happened?"
"That's the devil of it, we don't know. We ran up to him and found him collapsed, laughing his head off, and raving about your having come back from the dead."
I felt cold inside. What had I done to my friend? "And you believed him?"
"We did when I pried a piece of crumpled note paper from his fist. My heart all but stopped when I recognized your handwriting. He stuttered out enough for us to piece things together, then drifted off into a heavy doze. The professor went very grim and took charge of the house. You know the rest."
"I wish I didn't." Suddenly weary, I found my way to one of the fireside chairs and dropped into it, rubbing the back of my neck. "My return must have brought on his attack, but why? If anything, it should have made him better."
"The mind is capable of reacting in any number of unexpected ways from that which we'd prefer. I think the strain was too much and he simply gave in."
"I can't believe that. I'm going to see him."
Jack looked ready to object, then shrugged. "Very well. But I would not be too optimistic."
He opened the door. Waiting on the other side were a dozen or so of the house's male servants, each one armed with some deadly implement ranging from golf clubs to fireplace pokers. Jack gave out an exclamation at the sight, half-jumping out of his skin.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, quite outraged. "Foster?"
Art's butler, a formidable old snob, lifted his chin, the better to look down his nose. "If you please, Dr. Seward, the foreign gentleman"—his emphasis was more indication of sarcasm than respect—"insisted we take up arms against this other foreign gentleman. We none of us wants any trouble, sir, but we are placed in a very difficult position."
"I'm sure he did not mean to, but you may be assured that all the trouble has been sorted out. Mr. Morris is not to be assaulted, is that clear?"
Foster nodded and the rest of the rag-tag army of footmen looked highly relieved. "Very well, sir. May I inquire if this is the same Mr. Morris who was killed in foreign parts?"
"Yes, but it was all . . . a mistake."
He sniffed. "Then may I offer my congratulations on your recovery, Mr. Morris?"
"Thank you, Foster," I said, doing my damnedest to keep a sober face on.
"Are there any other orders, Dr. Seward?"
"Just go about your usual business, Foster."
"Very good, sir." Regally, he turned and surveyed his troops, and dismissed them with a word. They shuffled away slow, reluctant to leave, and obviously full of questions, but they'd just have to do without. God knows what answers they'd supply to themselves once they reached the servants' hall.
As soon as they were out of earshot Jack and I fell into a quiet fit of laughter. We were like two schoolboys who had just put one over on a strict teacher. It was absolutely the wrong time and place for it, but we just couldn't help ourselves. If Van Helsing reappeared brandishing a stake and hammer, I'd have not been able to fend him off.
"God, but I needed that," confessed Jack, wiping his eyes. "Hysterics has a place in one's recovery, it seems. Come on, then."
He led the way to Art's room, which was toward the end of the hall. Some few of the household lingered about the stairway, pretending to work. Jack knocked twice on Art's door, then carefully opened it.
"Professor?" he asked, holding to this side of the threshold. Perhaps he expected Van Helsing to be standing just out of sight with another Comanche lance.
"Let me," I said, moving past him, my senses all alert. If there was a piece of bushwhacking at hand, I'd be able to react quick enough to head it off.
But the room was empty.
No sign of Van Helsing, no sign of Art.
"He's taken him away," whispered Jack in disbelief, as shocked as I'd ever seen him.