"Ned," it was the inventor's voice; but it sounded faint and far off, "shall I call out?"
"And betray your trust—no, sir!"
"Thank you; I thought you would say that. There is no chance of our getting away?"
"Not a loophole that I can see, sir."
"So be it. The explosion must come in a few seconds now, and all will be over."
The inventor bowed his head. Ned's brain worked as it had never worked before, but, think as he would, he could not contrive any avenue of escape. "If only I could work these ropes loose; if only they'd left the lamp—I'd have risked knocking it over and burning them off. If only——"
The boy came to a sudden stop.
On the floor by the table he had espied a small, gleaming point of fire—the burning stub of a cigar, carelessly thrown aside by one of the Pulsifers. They smoked only the best of cigars and the weed burned red and strong.
To Ned its spark rekindled hope.