He never knew what other departments were in the place, for the witch happened to glance

up at one of the curious clocks

that adorn the walls. She said it kept infernal time. At any rate, his nibs was due shortly.

They must hurry to the apparition chamber. That awesome place was in a class by itself.

Murals showing the torments of hell covered along walls.

At one end was a throne, at the other a full-length portrait of his nibs himself, surrounded

by numerous photographs.

The portrait was the conventional one of the vermilion anthropoid modified by barbed tail,

cloven hoofs, horns, and a wonderfully sardonic leer. The rest of the pictures were of ordinary people, some

vaguely familiar to Mr. Feathersmith. His vileness always appears to mortals as one of their

own kind, explained the witch, seeing Mr. Feathersmith's interest in the gallery.

It works out better that way.

Two imps were bustling about, arranging candles and bowls of incense, about a golden pentagon

embedded in the black composition floor.

There were other cabalistic designs worked into the floor by means of metallic strips set edgewise, but apparently they were for lesser demons or gin.

The one receiving attention at the moment was immediately before the throne.

The witch produced a pair of earplugs and inserted them into Mr.

Feathersmith's ears. Then she blindfolded him, patted him soothingly, and told him to take

it easy. It was always a little startling the first time. It was.

He heard the spewing of some type of fireworks,

and then the monotone of the witch's chant.

Then there was a splitting peal of thunder,

...