muttered:

"This lamp is enough to poison one."

Then recalling a trick of speech habitual to Dr. Socrates, as to the
origin of which he was ignorant, he repeated mentally:

"This lamp stinks like thirty-six cart-loads of devils."

Instances occurred to him of several abortive attempts at suicide. He
remembered having read in a newspaper that a married man, after killing
his wife, had, like Chevalier, fired his revolver into his mouth, but
had only succeeded in shattering his jaw; he remembered that at his club
a well known sportsman, after a card scandal, tried to blow out his
brains but merely shot off an ear. These instances applied to Chevalier
with striking exactitude.

"Supposing he were not dead."

He wished and hoped against all evidence that the unfortunate man might
still be breathing, that he might be saved. He thought of fetching
bandages, of giving first aid. Intending to re-examine the man lying in
the front room, he raised the lamp, which was still emitting an
insufficient light, too suddenly, and so extinguished it. Whereupon,
surprised by the sudden darkness, he lost patience and exclaimed:

"Confound the blasted thing!"

While lighting it again, he flattered himself with the idea that
Chevalier, once taken to hospital, would regain consciousness, and would