“Stockton,” roared Drummond. “Wake up.”
With a start I pulled myself together and stared round stupidly.
“We must keep awake, boys,” said Drummond urgently. “In an hour or two it will be daylight, and there may be someone about who will hear us shout. But if you sleep—you die.”
And as he spoke we heard Gaunt’s voice outside raised in a shout of triumph.
“He is coming: he is coming. And there will be enough.”
We pulled ourselves together: hope sprang up again in our minds; though Heaven knows what we hoped for. Whoever this mysterious he proved to be, it was hardly likely that he would provide us with planks or ladders by which we could walk over the liquid.
“What’s that noise?” cried Toby.
It sounded like a motor bicycle being ridden over undulating ground, or a distant aeroplane on a gusty day. It was the drone of an engine—now loud, now almost dying away, but all the time increasing in volume. Shout after shout of mad laughter came from Gaunt, and once he rushed dancing into the room with arms outstretched above his head.
“He comes,” he cried. “And the war will cease.”
And now the noise of the engine was loud and continuous and seemed to come from close at hand. Gaunt in a frenzy of joy was shouting meaningless phrases whilst we stood there marooned in his foul poison, utterly bewildered. For the moment intense curiosity had overcome all other thoughts.
Suddenly Gaunt reappeared again, staggering and lurching with something in his arms. It was a pipe similar to the one which had so nearly caused our death, and he dropped the nozzle in the liquid.
“I’ll cheat him,” chuckled Gaunt. “The traitor.”
It was Drummond who noticed it first, and his voice almost broke in his excitement.
“It’s sinking, you fellows: it’s sinking.”
It was true: the level of the liquid was sinking fast. Hardly daring to believe our eyes we watched it disappearing: saw first one and then another of the dead men come to rest on the floor and lie there sodden and dripping. And all the time Robin Gaunt stood there chuckling and muttering.
“Go on, pump: go on. I will give you the last drop.”
“But where’s it being pumped to?” said Jerningham dazedly. “I suppose we aren’t mad, are we? This is really happening. Great Scott! look at him now.”
Holding the pipe in his hands, Gaunt went to pool after pool of the poison as they lay scattered on the uneven floor. His one obsession was to get enough, but at last he seemed satisfied.
“You shall have more,” he cried. “The tank is still half full.”
He lurched up the passage with the piping, and a few seconds later we heard a splash.
“Go on,” came his shout. “Pump on: there is more.”
“Devil take it,” cried Drummond. “What is happening? I wonder if it’s safe to cross this floor.”
“Be careful, old man,” said Jerningham. “Hadn’t we better let it dry out a bit more? Everything is still ringing wet.”
“I know that. But what’s happening? We’re missing it all. Who has pumped up this stuff?”
He gave a sudden exclamation.
“I’ve got it. Chuck me a handkerchief, someone. These two books will do.”
He sat down on the table, and tied a book to the sole of each of his shoes. Then he cautiously lowered himself to the ground.
“On my back—each of you in turn,” he cried.
And thus did we escape from that ghastly room, to be met with a sight that drove every other thought out of our mind. Floating above the wooden hut so low down that it shut out the whole sky was a huge black shape. It was Wilmot’s dirigible.
Standing by the tank of which Helias had spoken was Robin Gaunt, and the piping which had drained the liquid from the room was now emptying the main reservoir.
“Enough: there will be enough,” he kept on saying. “And this time he will succeed. The war will stop. Instantaneous, universal death. And I shall have done it.”
“But there isn’t any war, Robin,” I cried.
He stared at me vacantly through his goggles.
“Instantaneous, universal death,” he repeated. “It is better so—more merciful.”
We could see the details of the airship now: pick out the two central gondolas and the keel which formed the main corridor of the vessel. And once I thought I saw a man peering down at us—a man covered with just such a garment as Robin was wearing.
“Pumping it into a ballast tank,” said Toby, going to the door. “You see that: they’re letting water out as this stuff goes in.”
He pointed to the stern of the vessel, and in the dim light it was just possible to see a stream of liquid coming out of the airship.
“To think,” he went on dazedly, “that ten days ago I went for one of Wilmot’s Celebrated Six-hour Trips and had Lobster à l’Américain for lunch.”
Suddenly the noise of the engine increased, and the airship began to move. I glanced at Robin and he was nodding his head triumphantly.
“I knew there would be enough,” he cried. “Go: go, and stop the senseless slaughter.”
The poor devil stood there, his arms thrown out dramatically while the great vessel gathered speed and swung round in a circle. Then she flew eastwards, and five minutes later was lost to sight.
“Well, I’m damned,” said Jerningham, sitting down on the grass and scratching his head.
“You’re certain it was Wilmot’s?” said Drummond.
“Absolutely,” said Toby. “There’s no mistaking her.”
“Can’t we get any sense out of Gaunt?” cried Jerningham.
“Where is he anyway?”
And just then he appeared. He had taken off his suit of india rubber, and I gave an exclamation of horror as I saw his face. From chin to forehead ran a huge red scar; the blow that gave it to him must have well-nigh split his head open. He came towards us as we sat on the ground, and stopped a few yards away,
