Part 12 (2/2)

While the horror-laden moments were dragging by Jack heard a step on the stairs behind his head. Then he realized that some one was looking into the room. Then a voice spoke. It was Millard's, though scarcely recognizable on account of its huskiness.

”It's a fearful thing to do, Benson, but--but I can't help it! If you only knew what it means to me to win!”

Then followed a moment of utter silence. Jack could hear his own heart beating, as he fancied he could hear that of his persecutor. Then there was another sound, as though some light-weight metallic object had fallen to the floor.

”Good-bye, old chap! I--I respect you for your calm grit--that's all I can say.”

There was the sound of a quick turn, then soft footsteps. Jack knew that Millard had fled.

”He respects me for my 'calm grit'!” laughed Jack, grimly--almost hysterically. ”Doesn't the scoundrel know that I'm all but frozen into the torpor of dread?”

Then, just as suddenly, an anguished ”oh!” broke from the boy's lips, to be followed, instantly, by a tremor of hope.

For, except at the time when interrupted by Millard's return, the young submarine captain had been fighting savagely at the bonds behind his back. Now, he fancied, he heard or felt a single strand giving way.

”I've got to get out of this quickly, if at all!” quavered the boy, staring with wavering eyes at the ever-shortening candle-bit. ”There won't be anything left to do--except bear it--if I'm ten minutes longer at this all but hopeless task.”

After a few frenzied moments of struggle there was another ”r-r-rip”

behind him--close to his wrists.

Now, young Benson fought with rage and frenzied strength. His gaze was ever toward the candle, burning lower. It seemed as if it must communicate its flame to the paper at any instant.

There came another ripping sound. Captain Jack Benson, though he could not see, felt something giving around his wrists. Frantically he squirmed and twisted with his hands. Then, suddenly, his wrists fell apart--free!

With an exulting throb of grat.i.tude for this well-nigh unexpected boon, Benson forced himself up into a sitting posture. He was shaking, now, from sheer nervousness.

Swiftly, tremulously, he felt in his pockets.

”My long-legged friend never thought to take my knife--probably because he hadn't the slightest idea I'd be able to use it,” thrilled the submarine boy, as he forced a blade open.

It didn't seem to take an instant, now, to cut the cords and set his feet free. Jack staggered to his feet. The lighted candle had burned down, now, even more perilously close to the paper--but what did the submarine boy care now? At the worst, he could easily run from this house which, he felt certain, was untenanted save for himself.

As soon as he could steady himself well enough, Benson bent and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the burning candle from the tinder-like bed on which it stood propped.

”Instead of destroying me,” he chuckled, ”this candle will now light me on my way out.”

At the doorway at the end of the room Jack Benson, by some strange chance, happened to remember that slight metallic sound of something falling to the floor while Millard was speaking. Now, Jack bent over, holding the candle to aid him in his hunt. Ah! There it was! Yet how utterly insignificant--nothing but a hairpin!

”Trifles often lead to something big, though,” muttered the submarine boy, dropping the hairpin into his pocket. ”I've been too much around machinery to despise small things.”

Candle in hand, Jack quickly ascended through the rest of the house, after finding, in the lower hallway, a stout stick that he picked up.

With this club he felt he had a weapon to be depended upon at need.

But there was nothing in the rest of the little three-story house to throw any light upon the habits of Millard, or the place for which that worthy had departed.

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