At one end of the room is a small window. In the daytime is gives a weak light. After the sun comes up, this new light makes the room seem sadder and dirtier than before.
The waxwork figures stand in their places, with unseeing eyes. Soon the visitors are going to arrive. They are going to walk round, looking at this figure or that. But today, in the centre of the room, Hewson sits with his head far back in his armchair. His face is up, ready for the razor. There is no cut in his throat or anywhere on his body. But he is cold. Dead.
And Dr Bourdette watches the dead man from his stand, without any show of feeling. He does not move. He cannot move. But then, he is only a waxwork.
