“Pump, Walter!” he shouted. “This is an oxygen helmet such as is used in entering mines filled with deadly gases.”
Without another word he was gone into the blackness of the noxious stifle which filled the Radium Corporation office since the cracksman had struck the unexpected pocket of rapidly evaporating stuff.
I pumped furiously.
Inside I could hear him blundering around. What was he doing?
He was coming back slowly. Was he, too, overcome?
As he emerged into the darkness of the hallway where I myself was almost sickened, I saw that he was dragging with him a limp form.
A rush of outside air from the street door seemed to clear things a little. Kennedy tore off the oxygen helmet and dropped down on his knees beside the figure, working its arms in the most approved manner of resuscitation.
“I think we can do it without calling on the pulmotor,” he panted. “Walter, the fumes have cleared away enough now in the outside office. Open a window—and keep that street door open, too.”
I did so, found the switch and turned on the lights.
It was Denison himself!