“Bah! my dear fellow,” he laughed cheerily. “You’ll surely be all right in a few minutes. Stay here and rest. I’m sorry you don’t feel well. You’ll be better soon. I’ll order my car to take you home in half an hour.”
Then he crossed to the telephone, rang up a number, and ordered his car to be at the house in half an hour.
Then he rang for Horton, who brought me a liqueur glass of old brandy, which at my host’s suggestion I swallowed.
Mr. De Gex, standing upon the thick Turkey hearthrug with his cigar between his lips, watched me closely. Apparently he was considerably perturbed at my sudden illness, for he expressed regret, hoping that the brandy would revive me.
It, however, had the opposite effect. The strong perfume like pot-pourri had confused my senses, but the brandy dulled them still further. I felt inert and unable to move a muscle, or even to exercise my will power. Yet my sense of sight was quite unimpaired.
I recollect distinctly how the dark keen-faced aristocrat-looking man stood before me alert and eager, as he gazed intently into my face as though watching the progress of my seizure which had so completely paralysed me.
Of a sudden a loud shriek sounded from the adjoining room—a woman’s wild shriek of terror.
My host’s thin lips tightened.
The scream was repeated, and continued.
“Excuse me,” he exclaimed as he left the room hastily.