"My dear fellow, whoever you are," said the muffled voice of Six-and-eightpence, "this is my room. I can't see a thing. Where the dickens are the tins of vitriol?"
"Is that you, Six-and-eightpence?" said Mr. H——.
"Yes. Is it you?" responded the other. "This isn't your room, old chap; it's mine. Yours is next door. For Heaven's sake, get out. The others have thrown in their stuff. They're off. We shall be overpowered, I tell you."
"Well, I can't find my room," said Mr. H——, desperately. "Here, throw the stuff down anywhere. I'm off; come on."
As it turned out later, Six-and-eightpence's prussic acid did go into the tins, or at any rate most of it. But Mr. H—— lost his head, thinking he could smell through his blanket the deadly fumes already pouring from the other rooms, and, hearing everyone else making a dash for the open air, he upset his with a crash.
He rushed for what he thought was the door, but it was the window, all pasted up. His blanketed head went crash at the glass, luckily not breaking it, and then, realizing that he had made a mistake, he groped round for the door. But—it was shut and locked! Muffled in his blanket, Six-and-eightpence, thinking Mr. H—— had gone out before him, had run out, slamming and locking the door behind him! His prussic acid was already mingling with the vitriol. Mr. H—— could smell it!
When we all got outside we threw off our masks and blankets, and someone said, "Where is H——?"
"He's not here!"
"Then he must be in the house!"
"Good heavens! Not here?" said Six-and-eightpence, looking round him in a dazed way and rubbing his eyes. "Why, yes; I must have done—yes! I've locked him into my room! This comes of our being muffled in these blankets!"