It was intended that he should die before he knew the truth. Now he had learned it. But to what avail?
He could cry for help; he could batter against the solid door. These efforts would all be futile; they would add to the misery of death.
He went to the desk and pressed the button. He waited. There was no response. Of course not. Isaac Coffran had probably received the signal and was gloating.
The air was stifling. Life, Bruce realized, was a matter of short duration, now. He might prolong it by standing upon a chair, with his head against the low ceiling. That would mean twenty minutes more, perhaps half an hour.
The little alcove attracted his attention. There was a button beside it — perhaps another signal. He staggered across the room and pressed the button. There was no result.
Should he lie on the floor and die? It might be best, he thought, but the ordeal was hard to face. No, he would defy Isaac Coffran to the last moment. He stood upon the chair and braced himself against the wall.
The relief was not great. Duncan fancied he could hear the insidious gas hissing into the death chamber.
Perhaps it was coming more rapidly now; possibly his imagination was ruling him.
He looked at his watch. Quarter past eleven. The room was beginning to whirl, so it seemed. He was losing his balance. In another minute, he would topple from his place of temporary security, and all would be over.
A sharp click came from across the room. He looked toward the oddly shaped nook in the corner. His eyes stared in sudden fascination. Was it fancy? No, it was reality! The corner section of the room, with its narrow opening, was slowly descending. Following it, from the ceiling, was emerging a sheet of solid wall.