Your long-time friend, Werewolf Cookie, had been acting weirdly lately. Not only because he hadn't been seen in a good while– years, for some– but due to the odd gentleman he's been keeping in his home, Mr. Wolf, who's been described as a rather terrifying gentleman.

By ten o’clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very solitary and, in spite of the low growl of the kingdom from all around, very silent. Small sounds carried far; domestic sounds out of the houses were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumor of the approach of any passenger preceded you by a long time. You had been some minutes at your post, when you were aware of an odd, light footstep drawing near. In the course of your nightly patrols you had long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls of a single Cookie, while you're still a great way off, suddenly spring out distinct from the vast hum and clatter of the town square. Yet your attention had never before been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was with a strong, superstitious prevision of success that you withdrew into the entry of the court.

The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they turned the end of the street. You, looking forth from the entry, could soon see what manner of "Cookie" you had to deal with. He was tall, clothes looking rather tattered, and the look of him, even at that distance, went somehow strongly against your inclination. But he made straight for the door, crossing the roadway to save time; and as he came, he drew a key from his pocket, like one approaching home.