"I told you I always had something in reserve," he said, showing all his teeth as he grinned at me. "Always something up my sleeve—literally, in this case. I have just swallowed a little capsule of prussic acid which—"
If you want to learn of how a man dies who has swallowed hydrocyanic acid—the correct term, I believe—consult a medical dictionary. It is not a pleasant thing to see in actual operation, but, thank heavens, it is speedy!
The sweat was pouring down my face when it was over, but Bill Rolston had not turned a hair.
"Put something over his face, Sir Thomas," he said, "and I'll get through to Mr. Morse."
ENVOI
I take up my pen this evening, exactly ten years after I wrote the last paragraph of the above narrative, to read of James Antony Midwinter, dead like a poisoned rat in his chair, with a sort of amazement in my mind.
The whole story has been locked in a safe for ten long years, and that blessed and happy time has made the wild adventures, the terrible moments in the City in the Clouds, indeed seem things far off and long ago.
This afternoon I paid what will probably be my last visit to the strange kingdom up there.
I stood with my little son, Viscount Kirby, and my small daughter, Lady Juanita, and my wife, the Countess of Stax, at a very solemn ceremony.