Chapter 2

           Later,intheutterblacknessofthegreatarchedcellar,Jonescursedthechildishnaivetéwhichhadbroughthimthere. Forthefirsthalf-hourhehadkeptflashingonhispocket-lightatintervals,butnowjustsittinginthedarkononeofthevisitors’bencheshadbecomeamorenerve-rackingthing. Everytimethebeamshotoutitlightedupsomemorbid,grotesqueobject—aguillotine,anamelesshybridmonster,apasty-beardedfacecraftywithevil,abodywithredtorrentsstreamingfromaseveredthroat. Jonesknewthatnosinisterrealitywasattachedtothesethings,butafterthatfirsthalf-hourhepreferrednottoseethem. 

           Whyhehadbotheredtohumourthatmadmanhecouldscarcelyimagine. Itwouldhavebeenmuchsimplermerelytohavelethimalone,ortohavecalledinamentalspecialist. Probably,hereflected,itwasthefellow-feelingofoneartistforanother. TherewassomuchgeniusinRogersthathedeservedeverypossiblechancetobehelpedquietlyoutofhisgrowingmania. Anymanwhocouldimagineandconstructtheincrediblylife-likethingsthathehadproducedwassurelynotfarfromactualgreatness. HehadthefancyofaSimeoraDoréjoinedtotheminute,scientificcraftsmanshipofaBlatschka. Indeed,hehaddonefortheworldofnightmarewhattheBlatschkaswiththeirmarvellouslyaccurateplantmodelsoffinelywroughtandcolouredglasshaddonefortheworldofbotany. 

           Atmidnightthestrokesofadistantclockfilteredthroughthedarkness,andJonesfeltcheeredbythemessagefromastill-survivingoutsideworld.