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           Thedoctor’sflashlightwasmissing,buthisvalisewassafelythere,asemptyaswhenhehadbroughtit.Beforeindulginginanyexplanations,andobviouslywithgreatmoraleffort,Willettstaggereddizzilydowntothecellarandtriedthefatefulplatformbeforethetubs.Itwasunyielding.Crossingtowherehehadlefthisyetunusedtoolsatchelthedaybefore,heobtainedachiselandbegantopryupthestubbornplanksonebyone.Underneaththesmoothconcretewasstillvisible,butofanyopeningorperforationtherewasnolongeratrace.Nothingyawnedthistimetosickenthemystifiedfatherwhohadfollowedthedoctordownstairs;onlythesmoothconcreteunderneaththeplanks—nonoisomewell,noworldofsubterrenehorrors,nosecretlibrary,noCurwenpapers,nonightmarepitsofstenchandhowling,nolaboratoryorshelvesorchiseledformulae,no...Dr.Willettturnedpale,andclutchedattheyoungerman.’Yesterday,’heaskedsoftly,’didyouseeithere...andsmellit?’AndwhenMr.Ward,himselftransfixedwithdreadandwonder,foundstrengthtonodanaffirmative,thephysiciangaveasoundhalfasighandhalfagasp,andnoddedinturn.’ThenIwilltellyou’,hesaid.

           Soforanhour,inthesunniestroomtheycouldfindupstairs,thephysicianwhisperedhisfrightfultaletothewonderingfather.Therewasnothingtorelatebeyondtheloomingupofthatformwhenthegreenish-blackvaporfromthekylixparted,andWillettwastootiredtoaskhimselfwhathadreallyoccurred.