But he could not concentrate his thoughts, for most of them were with his heart—yearning toward the teapot and the covered dish. At last he gave way, and allowed his gaze to rest again upon the silent tempters. His left hand went out to them, then came slowly back. He sighed, unfastened his coonskin coat, and cursed old Wigmore huskily, but heartily. Again the hand advanced. He lifted the teapot and poured some of the steaming amber liquid into the cup.
"It looks all right," he murmured. "But what's the use of looking at it? Of course the old beast has doped it! Heaven help him when I get hold of him!"
He set the teapot down, and groaned. He told himself to turn away; to forget the craving in his stomach; that he was not really hungry. He assured himself that it is beneficial to go without food now and then—for a day, or even for two days. Then he remembered having read somewhere that smoking allays the gnawing of hunger. He produced a cigar from the case in his pocket, and lit it fumblingly. While he smoked he kept his eyes fixed upon the tray. Suddenly he leaned forward and lifted the cover from the dish.
"Buttered toast!" he exclaimed, in so tragic a voice that the sound of it brought a smile to his dry lips. He replaced the cover with such violence as to crack the dish. After smoking gloomily for another minute or two, he again allowed his attentions to dwell upon the tea, toast, and cream. He lifted the half-filled cup and sniffed it. Did he detect a bitterness in the clean, faint fragrance of it, or was the bitterness only in his imagination? He tilted the cup this way and that, searching the clear liquid for some cloudy sign of danger. He was unsuccessful. He sniffed it again, and this time could not detect the least suggestion of bitterness.
"I am a fool!" he muttered. "My nerves have gone to pieces!"
With a quick hand, he slopped a little of the cream into the tea, and raised the cup swiftly to his lips. But he did not part his lips. For a moment he sat motionless, with the cup raised and tilted—and then, with an oath, he replaced it on the tray, untasted. The momentary gratification of thirst and hunger was not worth the risk. He turned his back upon the tray, and puffed away resolutely at his cigar. He would show the old devil that he was not entirely a fool!
Banks finished the cigar; and still old Wigmore had not returned. The tray still remained on the floor. Banks hitched himself to the head of the bed, and set to work with his left hand to unfasten the knots in the rope which bound him to that cursed, ingenious bedstead. The rope was small, and the knots were hard; but at last the outer knot began to loosen. He paused frequently in his work to glance over his shoulder at the door, and to hearken intently. At last he was free from the bed, but with the length of line still hanging from his wrist. Now he crawled across the room to the door, stood up on his bound feet, and tried the handle. The door was locked, as he had expected. Seated with his broad back against it, he worried the cord at his ankles with both hands until its three stubborn knots were undone. Then, moving on tiptoe, he carried the heavy bedstead across the room, and stood it solidly against the door.