"I am turning on the taps, here, Dasso, and all the crevices in the room are stopped up. In a little while—when—when you are quite dead, I will put a cloth over my mouth and come in and cut off the scarves which bind you—they are silk and will leave no marks. Then I will rouse the house and complain of a smell of gas, and afterwards there will be——"
The vision of the woman with the piercing eyes grew gradually fainter .... and it seemed to Dasso that he awoke suddenly.
*****
The room was quite light now. It had been a bad dream. Dasso tried to rise—why, what was this?
His hands and legs were firmly bound and his jaws ached with the strain of the gag. The air of the room was heavy with the fumes of gas, and his chest pained him as though it would burst. In his ears were weird noises and he felt the sweat of fear wet upon his forehead.
Air—he must have air. The window near him seemed to mock him with its promise of life. With an effort he managed to turn on his side, and inch by laborious inch, he worked his way to the edge of the bed—then on to the floor.
He lay for a moment, breathing heavily, his heart beating in great blows against his ribs. He struggled on to his knees and began a series of grotesque hops towards the window.
But with each movement the effort grew more difficult and the strain on his heart grew tenser. Twice he fell forward on to his face, once he struggled again to his feet. The second time he remained lying where he had fallen, his head buried in the dusty fur rug beneath his goal.
Below, in the street, he heard the jangle of milk cans. Then a man cried cheerily to his horse and a cart rattled past the house. Some sparrows flew past the window chirping and quarrelling—they made a shadow on the blinds and were gone.
If only he could throw something and break a pane of glass. Air—air—not two feet away—and life——