The face seemed a different shade of blue, I thought.
"Good God, Kennedy," I exclaimed, "do you suppose the effect of that mescal on me hasn't worn off yet? Blue, blue everything blue is playing pranks before my eyes.Tell me, is the blue of that face --his face--is it changing? Do you see it, or do I imagine it?""Blood asphyxiated," was the disjointed reply."The oxygen is clearing it.""But, Kennedy," I persisted; "his face was dark blue, black a minute ago.The most astonishing change has taken place.Its colour is almost natural now.Do I imagine it or is it real?"Kennedy was so absorbed in his work that he made no reply at all.
He heard nothing, nothing save the slow, forced inspiration and expiration of air as he deftly and quickly manipulated the electrodes.
"Doctor," he cried at length, "tell me what is going on in that heart."The young surgeon bent his head and placed his ear on the cold breast.As he raised his eyes and they chanced to rest on Kennedy's hands, holding the electrodes dangling idly in the air, I think I never saw a greater look of astonishment on a human face."It--is --almost--natural," he gasped.
"With great care and a milk diet for a few days Guerrero will live," said Kennedy quietly."It is natural.""My God, man, but he was dead!" exclaimed the surgeon."I know it.His heart was stopped and his lungs collapsed.""To all intents and purposes he was dead, dead as ever a man was," replied Craig, "and would be now, if I hadn't happened to think of this special induction-coil loaned to me by a doctor who had studied deeply the process of electric resuscitation developed by Professor Leduc of the Nantes Ecole de Medicin.
There is only one case I know of on record which compares with this--a case of a girl resuscitated in Paris.The girl was a chronic morphine-eater and was 'dead' forty minutes."I stood like one frozen, the thing was so incomprehensible, after the many surprises of the evening that had preceded.Torreon, in fact, did not comprehend for the moment.
As Kennedy and I bent over, Guerrero's eyes opened, but he apparently saw nothing.His hand moved a little, and his lips parted.Kennedy quickly reached into the pockets of the man gasping for breath, one after another.From a vest pocket he drew a little silver case, identical with that he had found in the desk up-town.He opened it, and one mescal button rolled out into the palm of his hand.Kennedy regarded it thoughtfully.
"I suspect there is at least one devotee of the vision-breeding drug who will no longer cultivate its use, as a result of this,"he added, looking significantly at the man before us.
"Guerrero," shouted Kennedy, placing his mouth close to the man's ear, but muting his voice so that only I could distinguish what he said, "Guerrero, where is the money?"His lips moved trembling again, but I could not make out that he said anything.
Kennedy rose and quietly went over to detach his apparatus from the electric light socket behind Torreon.
"Car-ramba!" I heard as I turned suddenly.
Craig had Torreon firmly pinioned from behind by both arms.The policeman quickly interposed.
"It's all right,--officer," exclaimed Craig."Walter, reach into his inside pocket."I pulled out a bunch of papers and turned them over.
"What's that" asked Kennedy as I came to something neatly enclosed in an envelope.
I opened it.It was a power of attorney from Guerrero to Torreon.
"Perhaps it is no crime to give a man mescal if he wants it--Idoubt if the penal code covers that," ejaculated Kennedy."But it is conspiracy to give it to him and extract a power of attorney by which you can get control of trust funds consigned to him.
Manuel Torreon, the game is up.You and Senora Mendez have played your parts well.But you have lost.You waited until you thought Guerrero was dead, then you took a policeman along as a witness to clear yourself.But the secret is not dead, after all.Is there nothing else in those papers, Walter? Yes? Ah, a bill of lading dated to-day? Ten cases of 'scrap iron' from New York to Boston--a long chance for such valuable 'scrap,' senor, but Isuppose you had to get the money away from New York, at any risk.""And Senora Mendez?" I asked as my mind involuntarily reverted to the brilliantly lighted room up-town."What part did she have in the plot against Guerrero?"Torreon stood sullenly silent.Kennedy reached in another of Torreon's pockets and drew out a third little silver box of mescal buttons.Holding all three of the boxes, identically the same, before us he remarked: "Evidently Torreon was not averse to having his victim under the influence of mescal as much as possible.He must have forced it on him--all's fair in love and revolution, I suppose.I believe he brought him down here under the influence of mescal last night, obtained the power of attorney, and left him here to die of the mescal intoxication.It was just a case of too strong a hold of the mescal--the artificial paradise was too alluring to Guerrero, and Torreon knew it and tried to profit by it to the extent of half a million dollars."It was more than I could grasp at the instant.The impossible had happened.I had seen the dead--literally--brought back to life and the secret which the criminal believed buried wrung from the grave.
Kennedy must have noted the puzzled look on my face."Walter," he said, casually, as he wrapped up his instruments, "don't stand there gaping like Billikin.Our part in this case is finished--at least mine is.But I suspect from some of the glances I have seen you steal at various times that--well, perhaps you would like a few moments in a real paradise.I saw a telephone down-stairs.Go call up Miss Guerrero and tell her her father is alive--and innocent."
