The sight of it was enough to make Comstock's blood run cold. Hopelessly he wished for a heart attack that would make him hors de combat, but for once that organ seemed impregnable.
Then, crawling on his hands and knees, crawling after the unseen bulk of Bowdler, with fear in him like a live thing, Comstock died a thousand deaths. In the darkness a bulky body had bumped into him, and for a moment his heart had seemed to stop completely but then he realized it was only Grundy. The man had whispered, "Not far now."
Most frightening of all had been the moment when his head had touched the solid wall of the back room of the saloon. That had not been frightening in itself, but what had happened next was the worst of all, for suddenly the solid wall was no longer solid.
Frozen immobile, he had waited till Grundy had said, "Go on ... hurry up."
Behind him Bowdler had pushed him, hard.
There was no choice. He went through the no longer solid wall.
Then there was another terrible period of darkness and silence and crawling along on all fours.
Bowdler finally spoke and he no longer whispered. He said, and his voice was harsh and loud, "It's all right now. We can stand up."
Then a light had flooded them.
And so here he was, Comstock thought dully, his brain feeling about as perceptive as a plate of liver as he stood in the small room that had no right to be where it was. Not that he knew where that was, but he knew that The Grandfather would certainly not approve of a hideout, and there could be no doubt that he was in such a place.