“This is not,” I continued, “the fiendishly mutilated body of an actual female, as you and I mistakenly believed. Rather, it is—so we may infer from Mr. Asher’s assertion—a wax sculpture of uncanny realism, crafted under the direction of the celebrated eighteenth-century cleric, Abbot Felice Fontana of Florence, Italy, whose world-famous shop produced anatomical specimens for use by the medical specialists of his day. So stunningly detailed, so exquisitely rendered were these models that no less a personage than Emperor Joseph II of Austria, after making a pilgrimage to Florence to view Fontana’s creations, bestowed a knighthood upon him and commissioned him with the execution of nearly twelve hundred pieces!”

“Good land!” Crocked: exclaimed. “You mean to tell me that this-here piece o’ gruesomeness ain’t nuthin’ but a hunk o’ beeswax?”

Asher emitted a low-throated chuckle. “It is indeed, Colonel Crockett—though only in the sense that the David of Michelangelo Buonarroti is nothing more than a ‘hunk of Carrara marble.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” muttered Crockett as he squinted through the glass front of the display cabinet.

“But how,” I inquired, “did you come to be in possession of such a treasure?”

The question elicited a tremulous sigh from pur pallid host. “There was a time, Mr. Poe, when no indulgence was beyond my pecuniary means. But that,” he added in a musing voice, “was in a day long past—before utter, irredeemable ruin descended upon the once-proud house of Asher.” For a moment, he seemed to become oblivious of his surroundings, his eyes assuming a wistfully meditative and faraway look.

Suddenly, he bestirred himself from this melancholy reverie and focussed his attention once again on our presence. “Come, gentlemen,” he said with somewhat strained cordiality. “My sister is resting soundly. Oh yes. Very soundly indeed. Allow me to offer you some small refreshment. You must be famished after your long journey.”

“Now you’re talkin’I” Crockett declared. “Why, I am so all-fired hungry, I could eat a whole bushel o’ bear-steaks, salted with hail storm and peppered with buckshot!”

“I fear that I cannot offer you anything quite so substantial,” Asher smiled. “But what pitiful fare I possess, you are more than welcome to share. And as we dine, you can tell me, at long last, what has brought you to my doorstep.”

Turning on his heels, he began to lead us from the cavernous chamber. Before he had proceeded more than a step or two, however, he paused—swivelled—and extended one long, bony hand in Crockett’s direction.

“Allow me to relieve you of that light, Colonel,” said he. “Though your hands are, I am sure, a great deal steadier than those of your friend, I would feel more confident if the candelabrum were in my own. My abode, as you may perceive, is full of old and exceedingly combustible furnishings. It would take very little to ignite a blaze and turn the entire house into an inferno.”