“You devil,” shouted the man Dubosc, “turn off the stopcock. We’re cut off.”
Helias laughed gratingly from the passage into which he had escaped in the general scramble. And then for the first tune we noticed the three other members of the gang. They were standing against the wall—completely cut off, as they said. Owing to some irregularity in the floor they were surrounded by the liquid, which still came surging into the room.
And then there occurred the most dreadful scene I have ever witnessed. They screamed and fought like wild beasts for the central position—the place which the poison would reach last. It was three inches deep now under our chairs, and it was within a yard of the place where the three men struggled.
Suddenly the first of them went. He slipped and fell right into the foul stuff, and as he fell he died. Without heeding him the other two fought on. What good they could do by it was beside the point: the frenzied instinct of self-preservation killed all reason. And forgetful of our own danger we watched them, fascinated.
It was Dubosc who managed to wrap his legs round the other’s waist, at the same time clutching him round the neck with his arms.
“Carry me to the cupboard, you fool,” he screamed. “It’s the only chance.”
But the other man had completely lost his head. In a last frenzied attempt to get rid of his burden he stumbled and fell. And with an ominous splash they both landed in the oncoming liquid. It was over; and we stared at the three motionless bodies in stupefied silence.
“I don’t like people who interfere with my plans,” came the voice of Helias from the passage. “Unfortunately I shan’t have the pleasure of seeing you die because the thought of your revolver impels me to keep out of sight. But I will just explain the situation. In the cupboard is a stopcock. In the building beyond you is a very large tank containing some tons of this poison. We use the stopcock to allow the liquid to pass through the pipe down to the sea—on occasions. Now, however, the end of the pipe is in the passage, which, as you doubtless observed, slopes downwards into the room where you are. And so the liquid is running back into the room, and will continue to do so until the stopcock is turned off or the tank is empty. It ought to rise several feet, I should think. I trust I make myself clear.”
We looked round desperately: we were caught like rats in a trap. Already the liquid was so deep that the three dead men were drifting about in it sluggishly, and the smell of it was almost overpowering.
“There’s only one thing for it,” said Drummond at length. His voice was quite steady, and he was tucking his trousers into his socks as he spoke.
“You’re not going to do it, Hugh,” shouted Jerningham. “We’ll toss.”
“No, we won’t, old lad. I’m nearest.”
He stood up and measured the distance to the cupboard with his eye.
“Cheer oh! old lads—and all that sort of rot,” he remarked. “Usual messages, don’t you know. It’s my blithering fault for having brought you here.”
And Peter Darrell was crying like a child.
“Don’t!” we shouted. “For God’s sake, man—there’s another way. There must be.”
And our shout was drowned by the crack of a revolver. It was Drummond who had fired, and the shot was followed by the sound of a fall.
“I thought he might get curious,” he said grimly. “He did. Poked his foul face round the corner.”
“Is he dead?” cried Ted.
“Very,” said Drummond. “I plugged him through the brain.”
“Good Lord! old man,” said Peter shakily. “I thought you meant that other stuff.”
“Dear old Peter,” Drummond smiled: “I did. And I do. But I’m glad to have paid the debt first. You might—er—just tell—er—you know, Phyllis and all that.”
For a moment his voice faltered: then with that wonderful cheery grin of his he turned to face certain death. And it wasn’t only Peter who was sobbing under his breath.
His knees were bent: he was actually crouching for the jump when the apparition appeared in the door.
“Hugh,” shouted Ted. “Wait.”
It was the figure of a man clothed from head to foot in a rubber garment. His legs were encased in what looked like high fishing waders: his body and hands were completely covered with the same material. But it was his head that added the finishing touch. He wore a thing that resembled a diver’s helmet, save that it was much less heavy and clumsy. Two pieces of glass were fitted for his eyes, and just underneath there was a device to allow him to breathe.
He stood there for a moment with the liquid swirling round his legs, and then he gave a shout of rage.
“The traitor: the traitor. There will not be enough for the air.”
It was Robin Gaunt, and with sudden wild hope we watched him stride to the cupboard. Of us he took no notice: he did not even pause when one of the bodies bumped against him. He just turned off the stopcock, and then stood there muttering angrily whilst we wiped the sweat from our foreheads and breathed again. At any rate for the moment we were reprieved.
“The traitor. But I’ll do him yet. I’ll cheat him.”
He burst into a shout of mad laughter.
“I’ll do him. There shall be enough.”
Still taking no notice of us, he waded back to the door and disappeared up the passage. What wild delusion was in the poor chap’s brain we knew not: sufficient for us at the moment that the liquid had ceased to rise.
Half-an-hour passed—an hour with no further sign of Gaunt. And the same thought was in all our minds. Had we merely postponed the inevitable? The fumes from the poison were producing a terrible nausea, and once Darrell swayed perilously
