Жах у музеї

           Howmuch,afterall,hadbeenreality? Wheredidrealityendandmorbiddreambegin? Hadhismindgonewhollytopiecesinthatdarkexhibitionchamber,andhadthewholefightwithRogersbeenaphantasmoffever? Itwouldhelptoputhimonhisfeetifhecouldsettlesomeofthesemaddeningpoints. Hemusthaveseenthatdamnablephotographofthewaximagecalled“It”,fornobrainbutRogers’couldeverhaveconceivedsuchablasphemy. 

           ItwasafortnightbeforehedaredtoenterSouthwarkStreetagain. Hewentinthemiddleofthemorning,whentherewasthegreatestamountofsane,wholesomeactivityaroundtheancient,crumblingshopsandwarehouses. Themuseum’ssignwasstillthere,andasheapproachedhesawthattheplacewasopen. Thegatemannoddedinapleasantrecognitionashesummonedupthecouragetoenter,andinthevaultedchamberbelowanattendanttouchedhiscapcheerfully. Perhapseverythinghadbeenadream. WouldhedaretoknockatthedooroftheworkroomandlookforRogers? 

           ThenOrabonaadvancedtogreethim. Hisdark,sleekfacewasatriflesardonic,butJonesfeltthathewasnotunfriendly.Hespokewithatraceofaccent.“ 

           Goodmorning,Mr.Jones. Itissometimesincewehaveseenyouhere. DidyouwishMr.Rogers? I’msorry,butheisaway. HehadwordofbusinessinAmerica,andhadtogo. Yes,itwasverysudden. Iaminchargenow—here,andatthehouse. ItrytomaintainMr.Rogers’highstandard—tillheisback.” 

           Theforeignersmiled—perhapsfromaffabilityalone.