Випадок Чарльза Декстера Варда

           Therewerefutile,bewilderedhead-shakingsfrombothmen,andonceMr.Wardventuredahushedsuggestion,’Doyousupposeitwouldbeofanyusetodig?’Thedoctorwassilent,foritseemedhardlyfittingforanyhumanbraintoanswerwhenpowersofunknownsphereshadsovitallyencroachedonthissideoftheGreatAbyss.AgainMr.Wardasked,’Butwherediditgo?Itbroughtyouhere,youknow,anditsealeduptheholesomehow.’AndWillettagainletsilenceanswerforhim.

           Butafterall,thiswasnotthefinalphaseofthematter.Reachingforhishandkerchiefbeforerisingtoleave,Dr.Willett’sfingerscloseduponapieceofpaperinhispocketwhichhadnotbeentherebefore,andwhichwascompanionedbythecandlesandmatcheshehadseizedinthevanishedvault.Itwasacommonsheet,tornobviouslyfromthecheappadinthatfabulousroomofhorrorsomewhereunderground,andthewritinguponitwasthatofanordinaryleadpencil—doubtlesstheonewhichhadlainbesidethepad.Itwasfoldedverycarelessly,andbeyondthefaintacridscentofthecrypticchamberborenoprintormarkofanyworldbutthis.Butinthetextitselfitdidindeedreekwithwonder;forherewasnoscriptofanywholesomeage,butthelaboredstrokesofmedievaldarkness,scarcelylegibletothelaymenwhonowstrainedoverit,yethavingcombinationsofsymbolswhichseemedvaguelyfamiliar.