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           Itwasinthatdirectionthathehadalwaysnoticedtheheavyplankdoorwiththeabnormallylargepadlock—thedoorwhichwasneveropened,andabovewhichwascrudelysmearedthathideouscrypticsymbolfromthefragmentaryrecordsofforbiddeneldermagic. Itmustbeopennow—andtherewasalightinside. Allhisformerspeculationsastowherethatdoorled,andastowhatlaybehindit,werenowrenewedwithtreblydisquietingforce. 

           Joneswanderedaimlesslyaroundthedismallocalitytillclosetosixo’clock,whenhereturnedtothemuseumtomakethecallonRogers. Hecouldhardlytellwhyhewishedsoespeciallytoseethemanjustthen,buttheremusthavebeensomesubconsciousmisgivingsaboutthatterriblyunplaceablecaninescreamoftheafternoon,andabouttheglowoflightinthatdisturbingandusuallyunopenedinnerdoorwaywiththeheavypadlock. Theattendantswereleavingashearrived,andhethoughtthatOrabona—thedarkforeign-lookingassistant—eyedhimwithsomethinglikesly,repressedamusement. Hedidnotrelishthatlook—eventhoughhehadseenthefellowturnitonhisemployermanytimes. 

           Thevaultedexhibitionroomwasghoulishinitsdesertion,buthestrodequicklythroughitandrappedatthedooroftheofficeandworkroom. Responsewasslowincoming,thoughtherewerefootstepsinside. Finally,inresponsetoasecondknock,thelockrattled,andtheancientsix-panelledportalcreakedreluctantlyopentorevealtheslouching,feverish-eyedformofGeorgeRogers.