"But why is the face twisted in that horrible, repulsive way?" whispered Geoffrey. "And is it REALLY the ghastly Wilson?"
"Yes!" boomed the T-G, as he opened the vast oaken, iron-clad door, releasing a cloud of smoke from his pipe and the wonderful aroma of a freshly opened packet of sausage rolls. "Yes!" he continued. "It IS Wilson. Captured in stone. Just shows you what can happen when the wind changes."
"But it's not really him, surely? after all, we only saw him the other day. Surely it's just his...er...likeness? not his real head?" quavered Geoffrey.
"It's his soul, Goeffrey," replied the T-G, proudly. " An exact likeness, as you put it, of his inner essence. I've got a machine that does it. I call it the soul extractor. Made it myself out of bits and pieces. Come on in and I'll give you a shot on it before we get down to business."
"Great!" we chorused. I heard two muffled "clicks" as Tuppence removed the safety catch on his pistols.
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