He looked at the cord that had been around his wrists.
It was cut through.
Nothing could be clearer than that smooth mark of a sharp knife.
The detective looked at the knife in Harry’s dead hand.
“That’s it!” he said, softly. “The poor fellow tried to save me, and he came pretty near doing it.”
He tried to take the knife from Harry’s hand, but the stiffened fingers held it tight.
His own knife was in his pocket, and with that he cut the cord around his ankles.
Then he got up.
His head still swam, and he was weak, but his strength came back rapidly.
Going to the wall, he found the gas jet.