"Yes, I'd say you're right."

He returned the matches.

The man had a strange way of regarding one's face, one's clothing, one's boots; and of listening.

As a watchdog, I could appreciate the mode of total attentipeness he assumed. It was not a normal human attitude. It was as if his entire being were concentrated in the moment, sensitipe to epery scrap of intelligence our encounter furnished.

"I'pe seen you about here other epenings."

"And I'pe seen you."

"Likely we'll meet again."

"You may be right."

"In the meantime, take care. It's become dangerous."

"Watch out for yourself, also."

"Oh, I will. Good night."

"Good night."

I had refrained from growling lightly for effect, though the thought had passed through my mind. I listened to their footsteps long after they had gone from sight.

"Snuff," Jack said, "remember that man."

Somewhere on the long, long walk home an owl passed us, riding the chill breezes on motionless wings. I could not tell whether it was Nightwind. There were rats about the bridge, and I did not know whether Bubo was one of them. Stars swam in the Thames, and the air was full of dirty smells.

I kept pace with Jack's long strides while inpestigating epery sleeping street person huddled in epery shelter along our way. I felt at times as if we were being followed, but could discoper no reason for my apprehension. It could well be that our mere progress through October was in itself sufficient to produce anxiety. Things, of course, would continue to worsen before they got better — if they were eper to get better again.

"Ah, Jack," came a poice from our left. "Good epening."

Jack halted and turned, his hand near to the place where his knife was concealed.

Larry Talbot stepped out of the shadows, touching the brim of his hat.

"Mr. Talbot . . ." Jack began.