The moments that followed seemed the length of eternity.
Each instant he expected to hear the dull scratching of the matches, quickly followed by the swift, crackling blaze.
With all his strength he strove to rend asunder the heavy steel chain, but it resisted his every effort.
"God in heaven! am I to die here like a rat in a trap?" he groaned, the veins standing out like knotted whipcord on his forehead, the perspiration pouring down his face like rain.
For some moments there was a strange, unaccountable silence in the outer room.
Lester paused in his efforts to wrench the iron bands asunder which bound his wrists, wondering what that ominous silence meant.
The suspense was terrible, yet each moment meant that much of a respite from the horrible fate which awaited him.
What could Halloran be doing? Surely he had not abandoned his intentions to set fire to the cabin?
It was almost too good to be true. And yet that awful uncertainty was almost unbearable.
In the outer room Halloran sat quietly thinking over his plans, match in hand, telling himself that he had better perfect them then than wait until he was journeying toward the railway station.