"I don't know," answered Jurgens, hoarsely. "Do you smell a peculiar odor in this room?"
"I've been smelling that for several minutes. Where does it come from?"
"I—I don't know, but it seems to lay hold of muscle and brain, like—like poison."
Jurgens had been holding the head of Obboney in the crook of his left arm. Just when he finished speaking, the head dropped with a thump into the sawdust; Jurgens staggered back, tried to recover his balance, failed, and crumpled to the floor.
"Are you sick?" demanded Bangs, stepping hurriedly to Jurgens' side.
"I—I don't know what's the matter with me," whispered Jurgens. "Some—some infernal power has—has laid hold of me and——"
His head sank back, his limbs relaxed, and he lay with closed eyes, silent save for his stentorous breathing.
Carl was also conscious of a slow stupor creeping through his nerves.
"Let me oop!" he gasped, struggling to sit up. "Take der ropes off oof me und led us ged oudt oof here. Oof ve don't leaf, ve vill be deadt men pefore you can say Chack Ropinson!"
"But—but where does that—that odor come from?" demanded Bangs, himself rapidly losing consciousness.