And so they found them—two naval officers, one of whom, by the mercy of Allah, was a doctor.
“My God!” he gasped, as they flung open the door and the atmosphere inside hit them. “Get ’em into the fresh air, Flags; and for Heaven’s sake—hurry.”
“Are they dead, Doc?” cried his companion, as they laid the two unconscious bodies by an open window.
“No—but damned near it.” He looked thoughtfully at his brother officer. “Go down and see what’s happened to that madman below, old boy. I’ll look after these two.”
The Flag-Lieutenant went, to return in a few moments with a face that was strangely white.
“Doc.,” he muttered, “he’s dead. Halfway along the passage there.”
The doctor got up quickly and followed the other. And for a while he stood looking at Hubert Garling’s face, that stared with unseeing eyes at the ceiling.
“Heart, Flags, or I’m a Dutchman,” he said. “The struggle to get the key did for him.”
They covered the distorted face with a pocket-handkerchief, and went back to the living. And it was a couple of minutes before either of them spoke again.
“May Heaven be praised, old man,” said the doctor, “that we decided to motor back to Portsmouth and not stop in town. It strikes me there have been some funny things happening here tonight.”