Harry worked his wrists along the edge of the tin sign. The surface was not sharp enough to gain results, but the projecting corner, Harry noticed, was somewhat pointed.
After a long, tedious process, he managed to sever the rope that bound his wrists. He stretched his arms, and rubbed his wrists. He picked up his coat, which he had dropped on the ground.
None of his money had been taken from his wallet. The stranger had evidently gone through it, looking for cards of identification. But Harry carried none.
His licenses were in the car; and his coupe — when he had last seen it — was in Blair Windsor’s large garage.
As Harry walked along the road, a car approached. It was not likely that it belonged to the man who had captured him, especially as it was coming from behind. Harry waved his hand. The driver stopped. Hold-ups were not feared in this part of the country.
“Will you give me a lift into town?” asked Harry.
“Sure thing,” replied the man in the car.
They rode along in silence. The stranger asked no questions, and Harry was too wise to inquire where he was.
After a ten-mile ride, they came to a fair-sized town. A hotel stood at the main corner.
“This is all right,” said Harry. “Thanks for the ride.”