“I don’t know,” Marie Louise stammered.
Verrinder repeated his demand of Sir Joseph.
“Weiss nit,” he mumbled, beginning to stagger as the serpent struck its fangs into his vitals.
Verrinder ran out into the hall and shouted down the stairs:
“Bickford, telephone for a doctor, in God’s name––the nearest one. Send out to the nearest chemist and fetch him on the run––with every antidote he has. Send somebody down to the kitchen for warm water, mustard, coffee.”
There was a panic below, but Marie Louise knew nothing except the swirling tempest of her own horror. Sir Joseph and Lady Webling, blind with torment, wrung and wrenched with spasms of destruction, groped for each other’s hands and felt their way through clouds of fire to a resting-place.
Marie Louise could give them no help, but a little guidance toward the bed. They fell upon it––and after a hideous while they died.