"Quick!" said Godfrey. "Over there. Now hold the torch."
And as I took it and pressed the button with a trembling finger, the
halo of light fell upon a bloodless face--the face of Marjorie Vaughan.
Simmonds was supporting her, and Godfrey, with frantic fingers, was
loosening her robe at the throat. My terrified eyes, staring at that
throat, half-expected to find a cruel mark there, but its smoothness
was unsullied. The robe loosened, Godfrey snatched his cap from his
head and began to fan the fresh air in upon her.
"Pray heaven it is not too late!" he murmured, and kept on fanning,
watching the white lips and delicate nostrils, so drawn and livid. "We
must try artificial respiration," he said, after a moment. "But not
here--this atmosphere is stifling. Take her feet, Lester."
We staggered out with her, somehow, across the hall, into her room,
and laid her on her bed. Godfrey, kneeling above her, began to raise
and lower her arms, with a steady, regular rhythm.
"Open the windows wide," he commanded, without looking up. "Wet a
towel, or something, in cold water, and bring it here."
Simmonds threw open the windows, while I went mechanically to the
bath-room, wet a towel, and slapped it against her face and neck as
Godfrey directed.
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