He caught the girl in his arms and kissed her again and again, while she clung to him half sobbing. Then, still with the same thoughtful smile, he pushed her gently into the chair.
“I must explore,” he said, briefly.
First of all—the door. Coolly he examined it, while the girl watched him with eager eyes. He seemed so calm and assured—so completely confident in himself.
A minute or two later he turned and looked at her.
“Nothing doing there,” he said cheerfully. “It fits as tight as a safe door, and there isn’t even a keyhole on this side. It must have some patent form of lock.”
He went round the walls quietly and systematically, tearing down the silk panels as he got to them. Nothing but smooth cement—not a crack, not a fissure.
He stood on the desk to examine the roof. It was of flawless glass, immensely thick. And then he had to get down abruptly. He put his hand to his forehead; it was wet with perspiration.
And now the full gravity of the situation had come home to him. Mad, Hubert Garling might be; there was no sign of madness about this trap. It was diabolically efficient. It was small consolation to know that the murderer might be hanged; all that mattered was that he and the girl he loved were in an air-tight room, and that in a few hours that air would be exhausted.
He took off his shoe and hurled it with all his force at the glass above his head. For ten minutes he went on throwing it; then with a little gesture of despair he threw the shoe on the floor. The glass was too thick; he was only exhausting himself and using up precious oxygen uselessly.
“Supposing we shouted, Jack?” said the girl, quietly.