Round the Fire Stories. Arthur Conan Doyle

him and sprang to his feet. He passed his hand over his flushed forehead.

      “This isn’t natural, Jessie,” he cried. “Why are they all asleep? There’s Father Pierre—he’s off too. Jessie, Jessie, your mother is cold. Is it sleep? Is it death? Open the windows! Help! help! help!” He staggered to his feet and rushed to the windows, but midway his head spun round, his knees sank under him, and he pitched forward upon his face.

      The young girl had also sprung to her feet. She looked round her with horror-stricken eyes at her prostrate father and the silent ring of figures.

      “Professor Mercer! What is it? What is it?” she cried. “Oh, my God, they are dying! They are dead!”

      The old man had raised himself by a supreme effort of his will, though the darkness was already gathering thickly round him.

      “My dear young lady,” he said, stuttering and stumbling over the words, “we would have spared you this. It would have been painless to mind and body. It was cyanide. I had it in the caviare. But you would not have it.”

      “Great Heaven!” She shrank away from him with dilated eyes. “Oh, you monster! You monster! You have poisoned them!”

      “No, no! I saved them. You don’t know the Chinese. They are horrible. In another hour we should all have been in their hands. Take it now, child.” Even as he spoke, a burst of firing broke out under the very windows of the room. “Hark! There they are! Quick, dear, quick, you may cheat them yet!” But his words fell upon deaf ears, for the girl had sunk back senseless in her chair. The old man stood listening for an instant to the firing outside. But what was that? Merciful Father, what was that? Was he going mad? Was it the effect of the drug? Surely it was a European cheer? Yes, there were sharp orders in English. There was the shouting of sailors. He could no longer doubt it. By some miracle the relief had come after all. He threw his long arms upwards in his despair. “What have I done? Oh, good Lord, what have I done?” he cried.

      It was Commodore Wyndham himself who was the first, after his desperate and successful night attack, to burst into that terrible supper-room. Round the table sat the white and silent company. Only in the young girl who moaned and faintly stirred was any sign of life to be seen. And yet there was one in the circle who had the energy for a last supreme duty. The Commodore, standing stupefied at the door, saw a grey head slowly lifted from the table, and the tall form of the Professor staggered for an instant to its feet.

      “Take care of the caviare! For God’s sake, don’t touch the caviare!” he croaked.

      Then he sank back once more and the circle of death was complete.