He stared down at Wilbur, and for the first time Wilbur noticed the old man had eyes as black and mysterious as a pool on a dark night. Those eyes regarded Wilbur, noting his size, weight and general construction.
"Bah," the old man snorted. "You won't do. Not timid enough."
"Yes, sir," Wilbur chattered. He started backward down the stairs and almost fell.
"Wait a minute," the creaky voice ordered.
Wilbur halted in mid-step. The black eyes regarded him. A hand tipped by long, curving fingernails stroked the wisp of a beard.
"On the other hand," the old man said, "you might be more timid than you look. Come on in."
Wilbur trailed after him down a long dark hallway that was musty with age. At the end of the hall was an equally musty room, sparsely furnished with sagging and broken odds and ends. It was not the furniture which engaged Wilbur's attention, but the other features of the place.
On an ancient stand a sun-dial reposed, and next to it a large and milk-white glass ball. Near the stand a tripod stood over a sheet of metal on which a small fire blazed, and from the tripod a kettle was suspended. Something bubbled in the kettle, something that gave off a strange and noxious odor.
Around the room jugs were scattered, and as Wilbur caught sight of the labels a chill ran up his back. There were such unusual items as Essence of Dried Toad, Basilisk Oil, Chimera's Breath-Distilled.