“I feel funny,” he said. “Funny!”
The others sat staring at him.
John tipped forward in his chair. The others, still staring, slid backward and at once, it seemed, three heavy bodies swayed in their seats and slid to the floor. For a few moments the air seemed full of the sound of breathing rough and irregular; then slowly the breathing grew slower, deeper and more regular. It sounded like three great animals breathing together. They lay almost as they had fallen.
Painfully O’Brien raised himself to his elbow. He sat up. He could do no more as his feet were bound together. After a moment’s thought, he lay back across the cot and commenced to slide toward the front edge. When his body was well off the edge he stiffened his neck and, carefully sliding along, went to the floor without a thump. Sitting there, he wondered what he would do next. If there was one thing he wanted, it was to avoid making a noise that might alarm the people who were cheerfully quarreling in the flat below. Not yet was his own head out of the noose, and he wanted to get help so that he could have the three unconscious men arrested. But there he was, still bound and, worse still, gagged! At any moment Smith might return to see that his orders were being carried out. O’Brien knew Smith too well to hope that he would leave anything as important as his, O’Brien’s, execution to an underling. Haste was of the greatest importance. O’Brien knew that his life would not be worth a penny if Smith should drop in on the group now assembled on the floor.
But O’Brien’s arms were bound at the elbows and the gag covered all of his face except the twinkling eyes. Suddenly he had a thought. Beside John on the floor lay a box of safety matches where they had dropped when the owner fell from his chair. Reaching them with a series of wriggles, he succeeded in getting a match in his hand and striking it on the box. As the match flared up, he bent far back and held the flame close to the rope that bound his ankles and legs. Twisting his head painfully around, he saw that the scheme was working. The little flame for a moment bit into the strands of the rope. Another and another O’Brien lighted and carefully guided to the rope. Once in awhile the match went out, and as O’Brien saw the supply giving out, his anxiety became more intense. Time was flying. It was almost three o’clock. There were still three matches. In the silence the breathing of the three men sounded loud and ominous.
Two matches burned out. For the twentieth time O’Brien strained at his bonds. He lighted the last match, held it close to the rope until it burned his fingers. Then he strained on the rope. Alas, it did not give! He jerked and twisted, and it seemed as though he could feel the fibres giving, yet they held. As he paused to rest, he saw a single match still clasped in John’s fingers. Rolling over and over, with the empty box in his hand, he secured the match, lighted it, and held it carefully to the rope. It singed his ankle and burned his finger. Then once more he strained mightily. Once, and twice; at the third struggle the rope parted so suddenly that it unwrapped and spun out straight before him. His feet were free!
The loosening of the ropes around his ankles loosened one end of the rope that bound his elbows. A series of twists and wriggles and he slipped out of the coils and stood a free man once more. Tearing the gag from his mouth, he swallowed, and rubbed his bruised lips.
He was free! Free! And ten minutes before he had been as good as a dead man, his sentence pronounced, his doom lying on the table. Hastily pocketing the hypodermic needle he picked up his hat and hurried out of the back door, locking it as he went. Carefully and noiselessly he slipped down the black, narrow stairs, feeling his way and not daring to use his flashlight. Every few steps he would stop and listen. He was shaken by the narrow escape he had just had, in spite of his coolness and courage. It was not pleasant to lie bound and gagged with what seemed to be certain death staring him brutally in the face. O’Brien was braver than most, but it had shaken him. As he collected himself, he was filled with a cold, still rage: rage against the men lying senseless above him, rage against the arch-plotter who called himself Smith. And O’Brien, thinking of the man and of the position he had seen him occupying for the past months, grew colder and more furious still.
Reaching the street, he hurried over to the nearest call box and sent in a demand for a patrol wagon and a half dozen officers. There was a station near, and almost immediately the wagon came tearing up. O’Brien was ready for them. Three senseless forms were hurriedly bundled into the wagon, a couple of officers were left to watch the entrance of the building, and O’Brien, taking a last look at the room to see that it was in the order that it would naturally be left in if the men had accomplished their purpose with him, hurried off.
It was four o’clock. O’Brien commenced to realize that he was very tired. But his papers had been stolen, and the two most dangerous members of the gang were still at large. A hasty telephone to the house of Mr. Ridgeway was answered by one of the servants, who said that Mr. Ridgeway and his guest were not at home. The man could not or would not say more. O’Brien called the Aviation Field and learned from the night watchman that one of the planes was gone.