CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SPEAKING-TUBE.
Nature has implanted in every one of its living creatures, from the top to the bottom of the scale, the strongest of all instincts—that of self-preservation. As Sturgis fell forward and clutched wildly at the air, his hands struck the stone wall of the square chamber. No conscious impression was made upon his brain by the contact; but, automatically, his fingers tightened as they slipped over the smooth surface. His right hand struck an obstacle and closed upon it, in the convulsive grip of a dying man. Then a sudden gleam of consciousness swept across his sluggish brain.
It was the speaking-tube!
He clung to it with the remnant of his strength and eagerly placed his lips to the mouthpiece. For a few minutes he drank in with avidity the revivifying draughts of air which gradually brought him back from the brink of death.
With returning consciousness, the thought of his dying friend recurred to him in all its vividness. He tried to go to his assistance; but he was sick and faint, and his limbs were powerless to respond to his will. Then, at last, he was seized with utter despair and gave up the struggle.
He had sunk dejectedly upon the chair when a faint and indistinct murmur, as of distant voices, beat upon his ears, whose natural acuity seemed extraordinarily increased by the long nervous tension under which he had been. The ruling passion is strong in death; without knowing just why he did so, Sturgis found himself again at the speaking-tube, endeavoring to hear the conversation, the sound of which evidently came from Murdock's office.
He could barely distinguish a word here and there; but he recognized the timbre of one of the voices. It was the chemist's, and his interlocutor was a woman—perhaps his daughter. If only he could reach Agnes Murdock with some word or signal.
In suspense, he held his ear to the mouthpiece, occasionally taking a breath of fresh air to renew his strength.
Should he take the chances and shout in the hope of catching the young girl's attention? If he whistled, Murdock would answer himself, and the last chance would be lost. But would she hear a shout? And, if she did, would not her father prevent her from rendering any assistance? Yet what other chance was there? Poor Sprague was dying; perhaps already dead. There was no time to lose.
He stood for a while irresolute, and had just made up his mind to risk all on a bold move, when suddenly Murdock's voice became more distinct, as if he were passing near the mouthpiece of the speaking-tube at the other end.
"I shall be back directly."
He was going, then. Agnes, if it were she, would remain alone for at least an instant; and in that instant lay possible salvation.
The reporter strained every nerve to catch some other word. None came. But presently he heard a door close. Murdock had left the room. Now or never was the chance to act. With all his might he blew repeatedly into the tube.
"Well?"
The question came in the sweet tones of a woman's voice.
"Mr. Sprague is in great danger. You alone can save his life, if you do at once as I say. Go to the door of the extension; press upward on the lower hinge; then turn the knob! Quick, before your father returns!"
Sturgis evoked the image of Murdock performing these operations before opening the door of the extension; and, with retrospective intuition, divined their purpose.
There was no answer. Sturgis waited for none. In a bound he was at his friend's side and was struggling to drag him toward the foot of the stairs. As he reached this point, the door opened and revealed Agnes Murdock, pale and frightened, on the landing at the top.
The first rush of gas caused her to start back; but in another instant she had caught sight of her lover's inanimate form and had rushed to his assistance.
Slowly and laboriously Sturgis and his fair assistant dragged the unconscious man up the stairs. With every step the task became more difficult, as the effect of the gas told upon the strength of the toilers. It began to look as if it would be impossible to reach the top.
Suddenly a shadow fell across the threshold of the open door. Sturgis looked up in quick apprehension.
It was Murdock.
He stood critically observing the scene, with all outward appearance of calmness.
Agnes had not seen him. She was making desperate efforts to raise Sprague's limp form; but felt herself succumbing to the effects of the gas.
"My darling! my poor darling!" she exclaimed, and suddenly she staggered and lurched forward.
Sturgis made an instinctive effort to support her; but before he could reach her Murdock was at her side and had her in his arms. He bore her gently up the stairs and into his study. Then, for an instant, he seemed to hesitate. The reporter expected to see him close the door. Instinctively his hand reached back to his hip pocket for his revolver. But, in another moment, Murdock had returned to where he stood.
"Come!" he said.
At the same time he lifted the artist in his arms and carried him up the stairs. Sturgis followed unsteadily and reached the study, only to fall exhausted into a chair.
Having deposited his burden upon the floor, Murdock closed the door of the death chamber; turned a valve which was near his desk; opened the windows wide, and revolved a crank which projected from the wall near the door of the extension.
"He is shutting off the gas and opening the steel shutters of the skylight," thought Sturgis.
Then the chemist produced a flask and poured out a small quantity of brandy, which he forced his daughter to swallow.
As soon as she was sufficiently revived, she rushed to the side of her lover, whose head she gently raised to her lap. Murdock's eyes were fastened upon her. She met his calm questioning gaze.
"Yes, I love him," she said simply.
Then this strange man, without another word, gently pushed his daughter to one side, and, throwing off his coat, stooped over the prostrate form of the man whose life he had tried to take, and industriously worked over him, in an attempt to restore the failing respiration.
Slowly and steadily he worked for what seemed an eternity to the anxious girl. At length he rose, calm and collected as usual, and drew on his coat again.
"He is out of danger now," he said; "you can do the rest yourself."
And he handed his daughter the brandy flask.
A faint tinge of color had returned to the artist's face; his breast heaved gently in an irregular respiration.
Sturgis, still unable to stir from the chair in which he had fallen, was vaguely conscious of Murdock's movements. He saw the chemist open the safe which stood near his table and take from it numerous bundles of bank-notes, which he carefully packed into a valise; he saw him take from the same safe a few richly bound note-books, which he proceeded to do up in a neat bundle, securely tied and sealed.
This done, the chemist put on his hat and coat, and was preparing to pass out into the hallway, when a knock sounded upon the door.
Murdock opened slightly—enough to show himself, without revealing the presence of the other occupants of the room.
It was one of the housemaids.
"Plaze, sur," said the girl, in a frightened voice, "the polacemun says he can't wait no longer; he must see yer right away."
"Are they in the parlor?"
"Only the polacemun, sur; the other man said he would wait outside."
Murdock took a minute for reflection.
"Wait in the hall until I call you," he said, at last. "If the policeman becomes impatient, tell him I shall not be long; that I am engaged on most important business."
No sooner had the girl gone than Murdock, seizing the valise and the package, opened the door of the extension. His eyes rested for a while upon his daughter, who, still absorbed in the tender care of her inanimate lover, was oblivious of all else. There was in them an unusual expression,—almost a tender light; but the impassive face was otherwise emotionless.
The chemist seemed to hesitate for a brief instant whether to speak; then, passing out into the extension, he softly closed the door behind him.
Sturgis alone, weak and powerless, had seen him go.