Cornish stood up, groping in the dark, his head swimming, a deadly
numbness dragging at his limbs. He had no pain, only a strange
sensation of being drawn upwards. Then his head bumped against the
door, and the remaining glimmer of consciousness shaped itself into the
knowledge that this was death. He seemed to swing backwards and
forwards between life and death—between sleep and consciousness. Then
he felt a cooler air on his lips. He had fallen against the door, which
did not fit against the threshold, and a draught of fresh air whistled
through upon his face. “Carbonic acid gas,” he muttered, with shaking
lips. “Carbonic acid gas.” He repeated the words over and over again,
as a man in delirium repeats that which has fixed itself in his
wandering brain. Then, with a great effort, he brought himself to
understand the meaning of the words that one portion of his brain kept
repeating to the other portion which could not comprehend them. He
tried to recollect all that he knew of carbonic acid gas, which was, in
fact, not much. He vaguely remembered that it is not an active gas that
mingles with the air and spreads, but rather it lurks in corners—an
invisible form of death—and will so lurk for years unless disturbed
by a current of air.
Cornish knew that in falling he had fallen out of the radius of the
escaping gas, which probably filled the upper part of the room. If he
raised himself, he would raise himself into the gas, which was slowly
descending upon him, and that would mean instant death. He had already
inhaled enough—perhaps too much. He lay quite still, breathing the
draught between the door and the threshold, and raising his left hand,
felt for the handle of the door. He found it and turned it. The door
was locked. He lay still, and his brain began to wander, but with an
effort he kept a hold upon his thoughts. He was a strong man, who had
never had a bad illness—a cool head and an intrepid heart.
Stretching out his legs, he found some object close to him. It was Von
Holzen's desk, which stood on four strong legs against the wall.
Cornish, who was quick and observant, remembered now how the room was
shaped and furnished. He gathered himself together, drew in his legs,
and doubled himself, with his feet against the desk, his shoulder
against the door. He was long and lithe, of a steely strength which he
had never tried. He now slowly straightened himself, and tore the
screws out of the solid wood of the door, which remained hanging by the
upper hinge. His head and shoulders were now out in the open air.
He lay for a moment or two to regain his breath, and recover from the
deadly nausea that follows gas poisoning. Then he rose to his feet, and
stood swaying like a drunken man. Von Holzen's cottage was a few yards
away. A light was burning there, and gleamed through the cracks of the
curtains.
Cornish went towards the cottage, then paused. “No,” he muttered, holding his head with both hands. “It will keep.” And he staggered away in the darkness towards the corner where the empty barrels stood against the fence.
CHAPTER XX. FROM THE PAST.
“One and one with a shadowy third.”
“You have the air, mon ami, of a malgamiter,” said Mrs. Vansittart, looking into Cornish's face—“lurking here in your little inn in a back street! Why do you not go to one of the larger hotels in Scheveningen, since you have abandoned The Hague?”
“Because the larger hotels are not open yet,” replied Cornish, bringing forward a chair.
“That is true, now that I think of it. But I did not ask the question wanting an answer. You, who have been in the world, should know women better than to think that. I asked in idleness—a woman's trick. Yes; you have been or you are ill. There is a white look in your face.”
She sat looking at him. She had walked all the way from Park Straat in the shade of the trees—quite a pedestrian feat for one who confessed to belonging to a carriage generation. She had boldly entered the restaurant of the little hotel, and had told the waiter to take her to Mr. Cornish's apartment.