Besides his penchant for a pipe, Throckmorton had an old-fashioned tendency in favor of gas illumination. True, his house was wired with electricity; but when it came to serious work, Throckmorton believed that the best of gas lamps were unsurpassed.
Such a lamp now rested on the table. It was connected by a hose to a special gas jet on the floor. With this illumination, Throckmorton could read for hours without tiring.
More than once, in the past, his first knowledge of the passing of time had been the rays of morning as they issued through the thick glass skylight that formed the only window for this upper room.
As Throckmorton made marginal notations on the proof sheets, he shook his head a bit and glanced at the pipe. He noticed the cloudiness of the room.
The pipe in his hand was the cause. He set the brier on the table. He had been smoking too steadily, he realized.
Once more he became attentive to his task, but a weariness fell upon the man as he worked.
The atmosphere of the room seemed stifling. Perhaps it would be wise to open the skylight for a few minutes.
Stepping upon the chair, Throckmorton fumbled with the fastening of the skylight. He felt dizzy. Breathing deeply, he detected the odor of illuminating gas amid the heavier, more pungent aroma of tobacco.
He sniffed again; then swayed and clutched the handle of the skylight. It refused to budge.
The man’s efforts weakened him. The chair seemed to wabble beneath him. With a gasping cry and a wild grab to save himself, James Throckmorton toppled from the chair and sprawled upon the floor.