“But he’ll suffocate!” I gasped, and, indeed, I did not see how any human being could breathe in such an atmosphere.

And then, as the smoke whirled aside again, I saw the snake.  Its head was waving slowly to and fro, its horrible hood distended, its yellow, lidless eyes fixed upon us.

Simmonds saw it too, and retreated a step.

“We’d better keep out of there,” he gasped, “till that little pet’s put away in his basket.”

But Godfrey seized his arm and dragged him back to the threshold of the door.

“Look, Simmonds,” he cried, rubbing his dripping eyes fiercely, “there against the wall?—­is there something there—­or is it just the smoke?”

I looked, too, but at first saw nothing, for a cloud of smoke rolled down and blotted out the light from Godfrey’s torch.  Then it swirled aside, and against the farther wall I fancied I saw something—­a shape, a huddled shape—­grotesque—­horrible, somehow....

I heard Godfrey’s startled cry, saw his hand swing up, saw a tongue of yellow flame leap from his revolver.

And with the echo of the shot, came a scream—­a scream piercing, unearthly, of terror unspeakable....

I saw the Thug spring into the air, his face distorted, his mouth open—­I saw him tearing at something that swung from his neck—­something horrible, that clung and twisted....

He tore the thing loose—­it was only an instant, really, but it seemed an age—­and, still shrieking, flung it full at us.

I was paralysed with terror, incapable of movement, staring dumbly—­but Godfrey swept me aside so sharply that I almost fell.

And that foul shape swished past us, fell with a thud, and was lost in the darkness.

CHAPTER XXIV

KISMET!

Words cannot paint the nauseating horror of that moment.  Fear—­cold, abject, awful fear—­ran through my veins like a drug; my face was clammy with the sweat of utter terror; my hands clutched wildly at some drapery, which tore from its fastenings and came down in my grasp....

Three shafts of lights swept across the floor, and almost at once picked up that horrid shape.  It was coiled with head raised, ready to strike, and I saw that one side of its hood had been shot away.

I have, more than once, referred to Simmonds as hard-headed and wanting in imagination—­not always, I fear, in terms the most respectful.  For that I ask his pardon; I shall not make that mistake again.  For, in that nerve-racking moment, he never lost his coolness.  Revolver in hand, he crept cautiously forward, while we others held our breath; then the pistol spoke, one, twice, thrice, and the ugly head fell forward to the floor.

At the same moment, Godfrey sprang to the door from which volumes of heavy, scented smoke still eddied, and disappeared inside.

I scarcely noticed him; I was staring at that foul object on the floor; and then I stared at Francisco Silva, motionless on the divan, his eyes fixed on the crystal sphere, undisturbed amid all this terror and tumult.  It is impossible for me to remember him, as he was in that moment, without admiration—­yes, and a little awe.