ren't made for human beings, and their size bothered us. Anyway, it was devilish heavy. We had to have the Americans down to get It out. They weren't anxious to go into the place, but of course the worst thing was safely inside the box. We told them it was a batch of ivory carving--archeological stuff; and after seeing the carved throne they probably believed us. It's a wonder they didn't suspect hidden treasure and demand a share. They must have told queer tales around Nome later on; though I doubt if they ever went back to those ruins, even for the ivory throne."
Rogers paused, felt around in his desk, and produced an envelope of good-sized photographic prints. Extracting one and laying it face down before him, he handed the rest to Jones. The set was certainly an odd one: ice-clad hills, dog sledges, men in furs, and vast tumbled ruins against a background of snow--ruins whose bizarre outlines and enormous stone blocks could hardly be accounted for. One flashlight view showed an incredible interior
The probably insane (or is he?) sculptor/owner of a wax museum hints that not all of his waxen exhibits are only wax. The protagonist, Jones, decides to call his bluff. The actual night in the museum is good, creepy writing. The preceding set-up kind of drags. That being said, it's one of Lovecraft's better short stories.
The typos are very intrusive. The three-letter word that keeps being turned to gibberish is "eon" (I think.) A few other words are spelled correctly, but are simply the wrong word--they make no sense in the sentence.