Then he swung his leg, aiming the razor edge of the blade at the link of rope between his left wrist and the pipe.
Once, twice, three times he repeated the same pendulum movement, trying to strike the same spot on the rope each time, feeling the keen blade bite the fibers at every stroke.
Then the knife twisted between his toes; but he managed to keep a precarious hold on it. He brought it gingerly down to the floor and adjusted it again, with the aid of his left foot, in an intolerable hush of intense patience and concentration.
He swung his leg again.
Once more.
Twice more.
The knife spun out of his hold and clattered to the floor.
It was beyond his reach, and beyond hers.
He heard the girl's pent-up breath break out of her lungs in a long throaty sob, and saw tears swimming in her eyes.
He knew then, at last, without thinking about it any more, that she had told him the truth. He had been unsure. He had taken a chance on it, because he was forced to, but wondering all the time if this would end up as the supreme sadism of tantalization — if after he had revealed his secret weapon, and freed himself, if he could free himself, she would only call out, and Maris would walk in with a gun, and all the hope and struggle would have been for nothing. Now he knew. She couldn't have gasped and wept like that, otherwise; wouldn't have needed to, no matter how well she was playing a part.