He watched Fenn with dull,
incurious eyes as the latter crossed the uncarpeted floor of the
bare wooden shed, threw off his overcoat, and advanced towards the
side of the couch.
"Sit up a little," the newcomer directed.
Julian shook his head.
"No strength," he muttered. "If I had, I should wring your damned
neck!"
Fenn looked down at him for a moment in silence.
"You take this thing very hardly, Mr. Orden," he said. "I think
that you had better give up this obstinacy. Your friends are
getting anxious about you. For many reasons it would be better
for you to reappear."
"There will be a little anxiety on the part of your friends about
you," Julian retorted grimly, "if ever I do get out of this
accursed place."
"You bear malice, I fear, Mr. Orden."
Julian made no reply. His eyes were fixed upon the door. He
turned away with a shudder. Bright had entered. In his hand he
was carrying two gas masks. He came over to the side of the
couch, and, looking down at Julian, lifted his hand, and felt his
pulse. Then, with an abrupt movement, he handed one of the masks
to Fenn.
"Look out for yourself," he advised. "I am going to give him an
antidote."
Bright stepped back and adjusted his own gas mask, while Fenn
followed suit. Then the former drew from his pocket what seemed
to be a small tube with perforated holes at the top. He leaned
over Julian and pressed it. A little cloud of faint mist rushed
through the holes; a queer, aromatic perfume, growing stronger
every moment, seemed to creep into the farthest corners of the
room.
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