“My God, man, but he was dead!” exclaimed the surgeon. “I know it. His heart was stopped and his lungs collapsed.”
“To all intents and purposes he was dead, dead as ever a man was,” replied Craig, “and would be now, if I hadn't happened to think of this special induction-coil loaned to me by a doctor who had studied deeply the process of electric resuscitation developed by Professor Leduc of the Nantes Ecole de Medicin. There is only one case I know of on record which compares with this—a case of a girl resuscitated in Paris. The girl was a chronic morphine-eater and was 'dead' forty minutes.”
I stood like one frozen, the thing was so incomprehensible, after the many surprises of the evening that had preceded. Torreon, in fact, did not comprehend for the moment.
As Kennedy and I bent over, Guerrero's eyes opened, but he apparently saw nothing. His hand moved a little, and his lips parted. Kennedy quickly reached into the pockets of the man gasping for breath, one after another. From a vest pocket he drew a little silver case, identical with that he had found in the desk up-town. He opened it, and one mescal button rolled out into the palm of his hand. Kennedy regarded it thoughtfully.
“I suspect there is at least one devotee of the vision-breeding drug who will no longer cultivate its use, as a result of this,” he added, looking significantly at the man before us.
“Guerrero,” shouted Kennedy, placing his mouth close to the man's ear, but muting his voice so that only I could distinguish what he said, “Guerrero, where is the money?”
His lips moved trembling again, but I could not make out that he said anything.
Kennedy rose and quietly went over to detach his apparatus from the electric light socket behind Torreon.
“Car-ramba!” I heard as I turned suddenly.
Craig had Torreon firmly pinioned from behind by both arms. The policeman quickly interposed.