As they left the rear door into the dingy courtyard, Rogers took with him

the piece of burlap--weighted with a gruesome burden. Near the center of

the court was a manhole, whose cover the showman lifted quietly, and with

a shuddersome suggestion of familiarity. Burlap and all, the burden went

down to the oblivion of a cloacal labyrinth. Jones shuddered, and almost

shrank from the gaunt figure at his side as they emerged into the street.

By unspoken mutual consent, they did not dine together, but agreed to meet

in front of the museum at eleven.

Jones hailed a cab, and breathed more freely when he had crossed Waterloo

Bridge and was approaching the brilliantly lighted Strand. He dined at a

quite cafe, and subsequently went to his home in Portland Place to bathe

and get a few things. Idly he wondered what Rogers was doing. He had

heard that the man had a vast, dismal house in the Walworth Road, full of

obscure and forbidden books, occult paraphernalia, and wax images which he

did not choose to place on exhibition. Orabona, he understood, lived in

separate quarters in the same house.

At eleven Jones found Rogers waiting by the basement door in Southwark

Street. Their words were few, but each seemed taut with a menacing

tension. They agreed that the vaulted exhibition room alone should form

the scene of the vigil, and Rogers did not insist that the watcher sit in

the special adult alcove of supreme horrors. The showman, having

extinguished all the lights with switches in the workroom, locked the door