A twisted towel is not nearly so effective as a rope when used for binding the hands of a powerful man like Nomad.
He got his hands free, but a deep boom of the court-house bell marked the half-hour before he had succeeded.
To get the gag from his mouth and free his feet took him only a moment; then he staggered erect, groped for the door-knob, and reeled out of the closet and into the room.
He was drenched with sweat, and there was a sound in his ears as of the buzzing of a swarm of bees. That blow on the head was responsible for the buzzing. And what mattered it? Nomad was free! The trail to the Three-ply lay before him.
Fumbling for a match, he lighted a gas-jet. The room seemed in order. The chair by the window was overturned, and a spur lay near it, but, aside from that, everything was in place.
The hall door was closed. Nomad pulled at it, and found it locked. The key, he discovered, was sticking in the lock on the outside.
“What did thet pizen, light-fingered man blow in hyar fer, ef et wasn’t ter do me up an’ put me in ther closet?” thought Nomad. “Ain’t nothin’ in ther room been teched. Arter usin’ them towels on me, ther feller went out an’ turned ther key on ther outside. Waugh, but thet was er bump!” and the old man felt of the lump on the back of his head.
He had no time, however, to waste on himself. Pushing on the bell for the call-boy, he picked up the spur, righted the chair, and finished the operation he had begun something like two hours and a half before.
By then, “front” was rapping to find out what was wanted.
“Unlock ther door,” said Nomad.