Ужас в музее

           Thoughhardlyabletoholdhimselfup,Jonesroseandstumbledaboutthewallsseekingthelight-switch—forhisflashlightwasgone,togetherwithmostofhisclothing. Ashelurchedalonghedraggedhislimpopponentwithhim,fearingasuddenattackwhenthemadmancameto. Findingtheswitch-box,hefumbledtillhehadtherighthandle. Then,asthewildlydisorderedworkroomburstintosuddenradiance,hesetaboutbindingRogerswithsuchcordsandbeltsashecouldeasilyfind. Thefellow’sdisguise—orwhatwasleftofit—seemedtobemadeofapuzzlinglyqueersortofleather. ForsomereasonitmadeJones’sfleshcrawltotouchit,andthereseemedtobeanalien,rustyodouraboutit. InthenormalclothesbeneathitwasRogers’key-ring,andthistheexhaustedvictorseizedashisfinalpassporttofreedom. Theshadesatthesmall,slit-likewindowswereallsecurelydrawn,andheletthemremainso. 

           Washingoffthebloodofbattleataconvenientsink,Jonesdonnedthemostordinary-lookingandleastill-fittingclotheshecouldfindonthecostumehooks. Testingthedoortothecourtyard,hefounditfastenedwithaspring-lockwhichdidnotrequireakeyfromtheinside. Hekeptthekey-ring,however,toadmithimonhisreturnwithaid—forplainly,thethingtodowastocallinanalienist. Therewasnotelephoneinthemuseum,butitwouldnottakelongtofindanall-nightrestaurantorchemist’sshopwhereonecouldbehad.