The fall half stunned him. Already weakened, the man could make only a feeble effort to regain his footing. He tried to crawl in the direction of the door.
He failed. Footsteps came pounding up the stairs from the floor below. Throckmorton’s manservant had heard the crash of the body and the chair. He was coming to ascertain the cause.
Knocks sounded at the door. The man’s excited voice was crying out. Throckmorton did not respond. He was past the point of speaking.
His body, half turned toward the door, was incapable of further motion. He was overcome by the fumes of gas that had insidiously filled the room while he had been at work.
The door was firmly latched, and Throckmorton had the only key. It was an old habit of his — a sure device that eased his mind against unwanted disturbance.
The servant’s pounding was in vain. It could neither arouse the master, nor could it avail against that heavy barrier.
The footsteps clattered down the stairs. The servant was running for help.
Only the quick action of powerful men could burst through to the room where Throckmorton lay helpless. The task was too great for one, alone.
AS the servant rushed from the front door of the house, he looked in both directions. It was a deserted neighborhood. The lights of the avenue offered the nearest and quickest aid.
The servant hastened in that direction. Running, he did not notice the man who had been hurrying from the opposite direction.