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I was fascinated. It was gruesome, and yet I could not take my eyes off it. Torreon stood blankly, in a daze. Craig was as calm as if his every-day work was experimenting on cadavers.

He applied the current, moving the anode and the cathode slowly. I had often seen the experiments on the nerves of a frog that had been freshly killed, how the electric current will make the muscles twitch, as discovered long ago by Galvani. But I was not prepared to see it on a human being. Torreon muttered something and crossed himself.

The arms seemed half to rise–then suddenly to fall, flabby again. There was a light hiss like an inspiration and expiration of air, a ghastly sound.

“Lungs react,” muttered Kennedy, “but the heart doesn’t. I must increase the voltage.”

Again he applied the electrodes.

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.