H. Bedford-Jones and W. C. Robertson

“ Kilgore held a match with trembling fingers. They lighted cigarets and stepped from the boat. The shrouded figure followed them, advanced to the black portal and beckoned.
“Come!”
The crafty gift of cigarets had been well calculated. Neither man knew what to fear, what to expect; their fears were lessened, their expectations were increased. They advanced and stood in the dark doorway. Their guide turned and spoke again. ”

“ The visage of Kilgore broke into a pallid caricature of his old smile.
“Come, come, my dear fellow!” he said gaily. “We're perfectly helpless and have been left here as a sacrifice to Esrun. We shall probably be tortured scientifically, and then dropped into a rift among the rocks—fire and brimstone and so forth.” ”

“ Near them, packets of food, which Kilgore recognized as taken from his own mess supplies. To the right hand, against the rear wall, were packs—the personal belongings of Day. To the left, at the other end of the chamber, were those of Kilgore.
“This is most amazing—extraordinary!” said Kilgore astoundedly.
“Our own stuff!” cried Day, starting forward.
The voice of their guide filled the cavern with its richly throbbing note.
“Wash,” it said. “Eat. Shave. Dress. Then—talk.” ”