No sudorific could hold out long against such an heroic antidote, and with the first signs of returning consciousness Brant dragged his patient to the wash basin in the corner of the room and held his head under the cold faucet. Antrim came up gasping and struggled feebly with his tormentor, but Brant thrust him down again and held him until he found speech and sanity wherewith to protest.
“For Heaven’s sake, let up—you’ll drown me!” gasped the victim, and Brant desisted.
“Got your grip again so it will stay?” he inquired grimly.
Antrim staggered back against the wall and groped for the towel which Brant handed him.
“I should hope so. What’s the matter? What have you been doing to me?”
“Matter enough. Drop that towel and come over here.” Brant was dragging him back to the desk. “Read that letter, quick, and tell me what to do, before somebody gets killed!” he commanded.
Antrim sank into the chair. “Great Scott! I feel as if I had been brayed in a mortar!” he groaned. Then he took up the letter and read it.
“Well?” said Brant impatiently. “Pull your wits together and tell me what I am to do—or is it too late to do anything?”
The chief clerk blinked at the clock and was evidently unable to see its dial. “Will you tell me what time it is?” he said. “I can’t seem to see very well.”
“It is ten minutes past nine.”