“That is what the military authorities say,” said Charlie. “But these peasants don’t believe that. They say the werwolf was here long before the war. There is a chateau over back here—not far from the outskirts of Clair. The people say that the woman lives there.”
“What do you mean—the woman?” asked Ruth, between jounces, as the car took a particularly rough piece of the road on high gear.
“The one who is the werwolf,” said Charlie, and he tried to laugh.
“Mr. Bragg!”
“Well, I’m only telling you what they say,” he explained. “Lots of funny things are happening in this war. But this began before August, nineteen-fourteen, according to their tell.”
“Whose tell? And what other ‘funny’ things do you believe have happened?” the girl asked, with some scorn.
“That’s all right,” he declared more stoutly. “When you’ve been here as long as I have you’ll begin to wonder if there isn’t something in all these things you hear tell of. Why, don’t you know that fifty per cent, at least, of the French people—poilus and all—believe that the spirit of Joan of Arc led them to victory against the Boches in the worst battle of all?”
“I have heard something of that,” Ruth admitted quietly. “But that does not make me believe in werwolves.”
“No. But you should hear old Gaston Pere tell about this dog, or wolf, or ghost, or whatever it is. Gaston keeps the toll-bridge just this side of Clair. You’ll likely see him to-night. He told me all about the woman.”
“For pity’s sake, Mr. Bragg!” gasped Ruth. “Tell me more. You have got my feelings all harrowed up. You can’t possibly believe in such things—not really?”