For a moment the two men stood face to face, the powerful form of the Black Sailor towering threateningly over the Professor. Behind them, with a faint hissing sound, the gas poured into the room through the broken bracket. Already the pungent smell of it caught Dr. Priestley by the throat.
And then, suddenly, the idea came to him. It was a forlorn, desperate hope, a scheme almost as dangerous as waiting supinely for the fatal vapours to overpower him. Yet—it was worth trying. He nodded his head almost briskly. “I will not call for help,” he said, and, turning on his heel, he sat down again in the chair he had just quitted.
The Black Sailor followed his example, and so the two sat in silence, waiting, waiting. The atmosphere of the room grew thick and heavy, difficult to breathe. The Professor found his thoughts floating away to trifling things, he imagined himself a boy again, at school—With a mighty effort of will he recalled them, forcing his mind to concentrate upon the thing he had to do. Yet, was it worth it? Death, in that comfortable chair, would be so easy. A pleasant languor crept over him. He had only to close his eyes and sleep—
Again his will triumphed. He must wait a few seconds longer, wait till the whole room was full of gas. But could he, dare he? His senses were slipping away fast. Yet he must retain consciousness, if only for those few seconds. The Black Sailor was glaring at him with baleful eyes, eyes that suddenly seemed familiar, as though they stared out at him from the past, many, many years ago. Where had he seen those eyes before?
The Professor’s strength and energy were failing him fast. He knew that, even if the Black Sailor offered no opposition, he could not reach the broken pipe and stop the rush of the gas. He felt his muscles failing him, his brain refusing to struggle any longer against the luxurious sleep which enticed it. He must make his effort now, before he yielded to that sweet, enthralling sleep which could know no awakening.
Stealthily he felt in his pockets, forcing his reluctant fingers to their work. Then, even as the Black Sailor struggled to his feet, and stood there swaying dizzily, the Professor slid to the floor, and struck the match which he held in his hand. There was a roar as of the heavens opening, a bright, scorching sea of flame, and the Professor knew no more.
XXIII
The Will
He came to himself slowly and confusedly. A strong light was glaring into his eyes, and he could hear voices, voices which he did not recognize, all about him. He seemed to be lying on the floor, his shoulders supported in somebody’s arms.
Gradually he began to distinguish words and sentences. “This one’s coming round, I believe.” “All right, the doctor’ll be here in a minute.” “T’other one’s gone, I’m afraid. I can’t feel his pulse at all.” “Here, help me to clear this plaster off him, somebody. The explosion seems to have brought the ceiling down. It’s a wonder it didn’t blow the roof off. Have you got that gas turned off at the main yet?” “Ah, here’s the doctor. Been a bit of a smash here, doctor. Gas explosion, from what I can see of it. Two hurt, one of ’em killed, I fancy. Take this one first, will you?”
The Professor saw a face peering into his own. “Well, my friend, what’s happened to you? Blown up, eh? Let’s have a look at you. Any bones broken? Doesn’t look like it. Can you move your legs? Good. Any pain anywhere?”
“No. I was stunned, I think, when the explosion took place.” Dr. Priestley’s senses were returning rapidly. The whole scene flashed back to him, the feeble glimmer of the little hand-lamp, the figure of the Black Sailor, formidable, immense, swaying towards him—
Before the supporting arms could prevent him, he had struggled to his feet. Something about his head felt unfamiliar, and he passed his hand over it. Every particle of hair had disappeared. He was bald, clean-shaven, without eyebrows or eyelashes.
“Steady, steady,” came a voice soothingly. “We’ll soon get you out of this. Here, sit down in this chair, or what remains of it.”
He let himself be guided to the chair. The outlines of the room, illuminated by the rays of two or three bulls-eye lanterns, began to be visible to him. He hardly recognized it. Everything it had contained was swept into inextricable confusion, as though a tornado had passed through it. Where the window had been was a square of dim grey light, the distant reflection of a street lamp. A whitish gritty dust covered everything, the debris of the fallen ceiling. And stretched out in front of the fireplace was the dim outline of a man’s figure, prone and motionless.
One of the men in the room came up to him. “Feeling better, eh? Narrow shave you’ve had, I should say. Do you remember who you are?”
“I am Dr. Priestley, of Westbourne Terrace,” replied the Professor.
The man gave a low whistle of incredulity. “Dr. Priestley? Well, you don’t look it.”
“I have letters in my pocket which will serve to identify me,” replied the Professor shortly.
He put his hand in his pocket and produced a packet of papers. The man took them, glanced through them and handed them back. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said respectfully. “But—I didn’t know you without your hair, and with your face blackened like that. Perhaps you could tell us who this is, sir?”
He flashed his lamp upon the features of the figure lying upon the floor. The Professor leant forward in his chair and gazed at them in silence. This man, too, was hairless as he was himself, as though he had been shaved by
