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           ItmadeJonesthinkofthatinsanepicturewhichRogershadshewedhim—thewildlycarvedchamberwiththecrypticthronewhichthefellowhadclaimedwaspartofathree-million-year-oldruinintheshunnedandinaccessiblesolitudesoftheArctic. PerhapsRogershadbeentoAlaska,butthatpicturewascertainlynothingbutstagescenery. Itcouldn’tnormallybeotherwise,withallthatcarvingandthoseterriblesymbols. Andthatmonstrousshapesupposedtohavebeenfoundonthatthrone—whataflightofdiseasedfancy! Joneswonderedjusthowfarheactuallywasfromtheinsanemasterpieceinwax—probablyitwaskeptbehindthatheavy,padlockedplankdoorleadingsomewhereoutoftheworkroom. Butitwouldneverdotobroodaboutawaxenimage. Wasnotthepresentroomfullofsuchthings,someofthemscarcelylesshorriblethanthedreadful“IT”? Andbeyondathincanvasscreenontheleftwasthe“Adultsonly”alcovewithitsnamelessphantomsofdelirium. 

           TheproximityofthenumberlesswaxenshapesbegantogetonJones’snervesmoreandmoreasthequarter-hoursworeon. Heknewthemuseumsowellthathecouldnotgetridoftheirusualimageseveninthetotaldarkness. Indeed,thedarknesshadtheeffectofaddingtotherememberedimagescertainverydisturbingimaginativeovertones. Theguillotineseemedtocreak,andthebeardedfaceofLandru—slayerofhisfiftywives—twisteditselfintoexpressionsofmonstrousmenace.