The inventor met his gaze with a half-dazed look that somehow sent a creepy feeling through the boy. Crossing the room in a few steps he shook the other’s shoulder.
“Mr. Lockyer? I’ve come to save you. What is it? What’s the matter?”
A hollow groan was the response, and the inventor, who had, seemingly, been partially roused when the chimney-board fell in, let his head sink forward on the table once more.
“By George!” exclaimed Ned, with a sudden remembrance; “I recollect now. Those fellows did say something about having drugged him. The stuff seems to be still working. Whatever will I do? They’ll be back before long, and we ought to be out of here.”
Reasoning that it would be probably his best course of action to cut the inventor loose, Ned drew his knife, of which his captors had not bothered to deprive him, and slashed the ropes that bound Channing Lockyer to the chair. As his bonds relaxed, the inventor slid heavily forward and sank in a heap on the floor.
“Well, if this isn’t tough luck,” groaned Ned; “what am I to do? I can’t carry him far, that’s certain. Guess I’ll open the door and see if the fresh air will revive him.”
He swiftly was at the portal. But it would not yield to his tugs.
“Locked on the outside!” exclaimed Ned; “I’ll try the window.”
That, too, was locked in some way he could not discover. But Ned was not one to be beaten by trifles like that. Picking up the chair, he swung it against the casement, carrying away sash and all. The blast of keen sea air that swept in seemed, to Ned’s delight, to revive Mr. Lockyer. He stirred like a man awakening from a long sleep.