He could not restrain the sigh of relief and hope that welled from his heart.
Nell Thornton’s keen ears caught it, and again her finger went to her lips, and she stopped, looking anxiously at the sleeper.
For several seemingly interminable seconds she stood thus, and when Turner did not move, she took another cautious step.
With her eyes fixed on Turner’s upturned face, she stepped warily over his body, and stood in the room at Browning’s side.
The knife gleamed in the moonlight. It was her father’s keen-bladed hunting knife.
“I hev come ter git ye out o’ hyar,” she whispered, laying her lips against Browning’s ear. “Don’t ye so much ez whimper a sound, er——”
She pointed significantly with the knife toward the sleeping form of Turner.
Then she pressed the blade against the rope that held Browning’s wrists. It was almost as sharp as a razor, and ate through the tough strands with noiseless ease.
She worked quickly, but silently; then stood erect, and pointed toward the door.
Browning moved his head to show that he understood.