Ross made no effort to go, but sat turning his hat round and round in his hands.
“I’ll call a carriage—”
Bascomb’s voice sounded like thunder in David’s ears and his figure seemed to dwindle to a pin-point, then tower to the ceiling.
“No!” shouted David, springing to his feet, “I’ll walk.” He started for the door, staggering against a chair which he flung out of his way, “No! I’ll walk.” Then he swung the door open and faced Bascomb. He flung out a trembling hand and pointed across the room. “No—but your man is a damned poor shot—and he’s dead—up there.”
Before Bascomb could recover from his astonishment, David turned and strode down the corridor. He stepped into the elevator, the door clanged shut, and before Bascomb’s ring was answered by the appearance of the ascending carriage, David was in the street, hurrying round corners in a vain attempt to flee from the blinding pain that he felt would become unbearable if he ceased walking.
Bascomb returned to his office. “He’s crazy—gone all to pieces. I thought he seemed queer when he came in. Well—” The little box on the table caught his eye. He picked it up, untied the string and opened it. “Aha!”
There were several samples of asbestos in the box.
He examined them, then replaced them carefully and tied up the box again. He pressed a button on his desk.
“William,” he said, as his office-boy appeared, “if a Mr. Ross should call when I am out, give him this box.”
Then Bascomb went to his desk and pulled the telephone toward him. “Livingstone,” he said, as he got his number, “this is Bascomb.... Yes, about the asbestos on Lost Farm. No, better come over here. I’ve got some new samples ... five-inch fibre.... Just wanted you to look at them.... Good-bye.”