Merriwell knew all his peril at the instant when he swung from the sill of his own window, but it was too late for him to keep himself from being carried out by the rope.
In a twinkling, his one thought was to reach the other window quickly, knowing he would be dashed to death on the paving below if he did not. He flung himself toward that window, just as the rope parted. His arms shot in over the sill, and there he dangled.
Down past his head shot the rope, twisting and writhing in the air, like a snake. He heard it strike on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.
An exclamation of rage broke from the lips of the man in the window above, for he realized that Frank had not fallen with the rope.
He leaned far out, lifted his arm, made a quick motion, and something went gleaming and darting through the air.
He had flung the knife at Frank.
It missed Merriwell, shot downward, and struck with a ringing clang on the stones below.
“Missed!” snarled the man. “Well, I’ll get you yet!”
Then Merriwell drew himself in at the window, and the peril was past.
No wonder he felt weak and limp. No wonder that he was jarred and somewhat bewildered. It was a marvel that he was not lying dead in the street below.