“Smash in the other window,” he said; “cook may be still in there for all we know.”
I hastened to obey. By this time a policeman had entered the gate and stood behind us. “Anything wrong here?” he queried. “I heard a window smash, I thought. Oh, gas, is it? Anybody in there?”
“We don’t know yet!”
The constable produced an electric torch, and turned its beams into the dark kitchen, sweeping it from side to side.
“There!” we gasped together. By the table was seated a motionless figure, arms extended on the table, and head fallen forward on them. Already the doctor was wrapping a wet towel over his nose and mouth, and the constable and I hastened to follow his example.
“Two of us will be enough,” he said. “You stay here, Jeffcock, to give us a hand when we get her to the window.”
The policeman turned on his torch again, and we watched them run across the kitchen to the still figure in the armchair. The Tundish darted first to the gas-stove, then back to the woman; he and the policeman picked her up between them and staggered to the window. They set her down for a minute on the broad sill while they drew long breaths; then we lifted her out and laid her on the ground.
The constable played the light on her face. Her head and shoulders, set in the bright circle of light, made a ghastly black-framed picture—white face, blue lips, eyes half open showing glints of yellow whites. She looked like some giant jellyfish, washed ashore and fouling the beach, a mass of boneless flabbiness.
The doctor knelt beside her, loosening her dress and placing his hand on her heart. “There’s another flashlight on my dressing-table; would one of you mind fetching it?” he said looking up quickly, his question a command. “And some ammonia from the dispensary too.”
Janet and I sprang to obey; I ran to the dispensary, she up-stairs for the torch. We were both back in a few minutes. She held the light with a steady hand.