"Promise——" pleaded the half-unconscious man.
"I promise," answered Sturgis, after an instant's hesitation.
It struck a chill to his heart to see his friend dying in the prime of youth, strength and happiness.
Suddenly a thought flashed upon him.
"Brace up, old fellow. All is not yet over. The speaking-tube leads to fresh air. Here, put your lips to it, and breathe through your mouth."
The artist heard the words and made an effort to obey these directions. With Sturgis's assistance he managed to place his lips to the mouthpiece of the speaking-tube. A few whiffs of comparatively fresh air sent the sluggish blood coursing through his veins, and gave him a new hold on life. With renewed vigor came the animal instinct to fight to the last for existence.
As the shadows of death which had been closing in upon him receded, he became conscious of Sturgis's voice beating upon his ears in broken and scarcely audible tones.
"It is——the last chance——Stick——to the tube——When he comes——surprise him——your revolver——shoot——before——"
The reporter was clinging unsteadily to his friend's shoulder. Sprague suddenly realized that Sturgis in his turn was succumbing to the effects of the gas. He sprang back in time to catch the staggering man in his arms.
"Selfish brute that I am!" he exclaimed. "Here; it is your turn to breathe!" And he pushed the reporter toward the tube.