Strong though it had been, the lock was already almost torn out from its foundation. They forced the spring and opened it. The porter turned his lantern on the widening space. Just as Gerald was raising the lid very slowly to save the contents from being scattered by the wind, the man turned his head to answer an approaching hail. Gerald raised the lid a little higher and suddenly closed it with a bang.
“There’s folks coming at last!” the porter exclaimed, turning around excitedly. “They’ve been a time and no mistake. The village isn’t a quarter of a mile away. Did you find a flask, sir?”
Gerald made no answer. The dressing-case once more was closed, and his hand pressed upon the lid. The porter turned the light upon his face and whistled softly.
“You’re about done yourself, sir,” he remarked. “Hold up.”
He caught the young man in his arms. There was another roar in Gerald’s ears besides the roar of the wind. He had never fainted in his life, but the feeling was upon him now—a deadly sickness, a swaying of the earth. The porter suddenly gave a little cry.
“If I’m not a born idiot!” he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from the pocket of his coat with his disengaged hand. “There’s whisky here. I was taking it home to the missis for her rheumatism. Now, then.”
He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of the liquid between the lips of the young man. The voices now were coming nearer and nearer. Gerald made a desperate effort.
“I am all right,” he declared. “Let’s look after him.”
They groped their way towards the unconscious man, Gerald still gripping the dressing-case with both hands. There were no signs of any change in his condition, but he was still breathing heavily. Then they heard a shout behind, almost in their ears. The porter staggered to his feet.
“It’s all right now, sir!” he exclaimed. “They’ve brought blankets and a stretcher and brandy. Here’s a doctor, sir.”