The man at the table glanced upward, with a quick start of alarm. From his throat came a low, angry oath.
“The cops!” he added savagely.
Clutching the long knife he had been using for trimming the plaster molds, he dashed to the door by which he had entered and hurled himself out of the room.
“Well, I’m glad they’ve come!” gasped Chick. “It may be too late to do me any good, but they’ll get even for me if I have to pass it up. By Grimshaw, I believe I’m dying!”
Things were reeling around him, and it was only by coming in contact for an instant with a corner of the hot stove that he was saved from swooning. He did not realize it at the time, but doubtless that was the way the sudden sting acted.
Crawling out from behind the furnace, he staggered to the door. He wanted to be in the mix-up, if only he could contrive to keep on his feet.
“I won’t follow that fellow,” was his half-conscious, inward resolve. “But I’ll take it the other way—if only I can get the door open before I drop. This room is full of sulphur, and it seems to be getting thicker.”
This was not really the case, but Chick had inhaled so much of the deadly vapor that he felt as if he could not stand any more, and each moment it had a worse effect upon him.
Fortunately, he contrived to unlock the door, and lurched into the hallway beyond.
The stairs to the cellar were before him. Avoiding them, he made his way toward where fresh air was streaming in at the open yard door.