Meantime the room was no longer so clearly lighted as at
first. For the smoke billowed up to the low roof, and in
thick waves poured out through the small ventilator. Such of
it as could not find this means of outlet doubled back
floorward, filling the room with chokingly thick fumes which
wellnigh blinded and strangled the man and blotted out all
details of shape and direction.

But already Gavin Brice had slipped to the floor, his
thin-shod feet planted in the midst of the blaze, whose flames
and sparks licked eagerly at his ankles and legs.

Following the trail of fire which led to the box. Gavin
strode through the very center of this blazing path, heedless
of the burns. Well did he know the snakes would shrink away
from actual contact with the fire. And he preferred surface
burns to a fatal bite in ankle or foot.

As he reached the box its corners had already caught fire from
the licking flames below. Heaving up the burning receptacle.
Brice looked under it. There lay the rusty key, just visible
through the lurid smoke glare. But not ten inches away from
the far side of it coiled a moccasin, head poised
threateningly as the box grazed it under Gavin's sharp heave.

Stooping, Brice snatched up a great bunch of the flaming paper
and flung it on the serpent's shining coils. In practically
the same gesture he reached with lightning quickness for the
key.