THIRTY SECONDS OF TWELVE
It was an exciting moment. Bart was intently worked up, but he kept his head level. Everything hung on the action of the next two minutes.
Whatever price the rich Colonel Harrington was paying Lem Wacker for his coöperation, it was not enough to blind that individual to a realization of the fact that accident had placed in Wacker's grasp the great haul of his life, and he was making off with this fortune, leaving the colonel in the lurch.
The latter stood shaking like an aspen, his face the color of chalk. Apparently he took in and believed every word that Bart had spoken.
"I'm in a fix—a terrible fix!" he groaned. "This is dreadful—dreadful!"
"Mend it, then!" cried Bart. "Quick! if you have one spark of sense or manhood in you. There's a knife—cut this rope."
With quivering fingers Colonel Harrington took up from the desk the office knife used for cutting string. It was keen-bladed as a razor. Unsteady and bungling as was his stroke, he severed the rope partly, and Bart burst his bonds free.
"Stay here," called out the young express agent sharply. "I hold you responsible for this office till I return!"
He dashed outside like a rocket, scanned the whole roadway expanse, and darted for the freight yards with the speed of the wind.
The electric arc lights were sparsely scattered, but there was sufficient illumination for him to make out a fugitive figure just crossing the broad roadway towards the freight tracks.