He began to bind Harry’s ankles as he spoke.
“I’m going back to the old farmhouse,” he continued. “Maybe I’ll run into some new developments. Perhaps I’ll get a line on who you are. No telling what may happen.
“Then I’ll be back. It will be your last chance to talk. If you don’t open up then, I’ll pack you in the car, and take you where you won’t want to be.”
He finished on Harry’s ankles. Coming from behind he roped the young man’s wrists. Then he unlocked the handcuff, and finished by tying Harry securely.
“I know it’s lonely out here,” he said. “I don’t like to leave you, for your own good. But it can’t be helped.”
Moving the cot over to the corner, the stranger urged Harry Vincent from the chair, and rolled him on the improvised bed. He blew out the light, and Harry heard him leave the little building.
* * *
The darkness was intense. Harry’s wrists and ankles chafed as he strained against the rope. He began to crave action. There must be some way out of this predicament.
He rolled toward the side of the cot, and let his feet to the floor. Then he rolled off. He found that he could urge his body along in helpless fashion.
There was a table on which stood the extinguished oil lamp. Harry groped his way to the spot, and raised himself to his knees. He pushed his chin along the table, and bumped a box or matches.