West did not resist or utter a sound.
Then they all sprang at him and tore him to pieces before my eyes, bearing the fragments away into that subterranean vault of fabulous abominations.
West's head was carried off by the wax-headed leader, who wore a Canadian officer's uniform.
As it disappeared I saw that the blue eyes behind the spectacles were hideously blazing with their first touch of frantic, visible emotion.
Servants found me unconscious in the morning.
West was gone.
The incinerator contained only unidentifiable ashes.
Detectives have questioned me, but what can I say?
The Sefton tragedy they will not connect with West; not that, nor the men with the box, whose existence they deny.
I told them of the vault, and they pointed to the unbroken plaster wall and laughed.
So I told them no more.
They imply that I am either a madman or a murderer - probably I am mad.
But I might not be mad if those accursed tomb-legions had not been so silent.