"Your eyes were fairly busy as it was," I remarked. "Besides, maybe he hasn't got away."
Godfrey's face, as he glanced about the room, showed that he cherished no such hope.
"Let's see what happened to Mahbub," he said. "Maybe he got away, too," and he crossed to the inner door.
The flame in the brazier had died away, and the smoke came only in fitful puffs, heavy with deadening perfume. The Thug had not got away. He lay on the floor—a dreadful sight. He was lying on his back, his hands clenched, his body arched in a convulsion, his head drawn far back. The black lips were parted over the ugly teeth, and the eyes had rolled upward till they gleamed, two vacant balls of white. At the side of his neck, just under the jaw, was a hideous swelling.
Godfrey's torch ran over the body from head to foot, and I sickened as I looked at it.
"I'm going out," I said. "I can't stand this!" and I hurried to the open window.
Godfrey joined me there in a moment.
"I'm feeling pretty bad myself," he said, putting the torch in his pocket and mopping his shining forehead. "It's plain enough what happened. I caught a glimpse of Miss Vaughan on the floor there, realised that we couldn't do anything with the snake in the way, and shot at it, but I only ripped away a portion of the hood, and the thing, mad with rage, sprang upon the Hindu. Nothing on earth could have saved him after it got its fangs in his neck. Ugh!"
He shivered slightly, and stood gazing for a moment down into the garden. Then he turned back to me with a smile.
"It's a good night's work, Lester," he said, "even if we don't catch Silva. I fancy Miss Vaughan will change her mind, now, about becoming a priestess of Siva!"