Sometimes he had struggled against it, but to-day it had been too strong for him.
Craven's voice had grown fainter and fainter, the room had filled with mist.

He had made one desperate struggle, had seen through his hall-closed eyes that Craven was looking at a magazine and blowing, lazily, clouds of smoke from his pipe.

.

.

then he had known no more.
Now, as he struggled to himself, he saw that Craven was standing over him, shaking him by the arm.
"Hullo," he said stupidly, "I'm afraid I must have dropped off.