Angered beyond control at the memory, West swore, straining fiercely in
the vain endeavour to release his arms. Then, realizing his utter
helplessness, he sank back on the floor, and lay still.
What was that? He listened, for an instant doubtful if he had really
heard anything. Then he actually heard a sound. He doubted no longer, yet
made no effort to move, even holding his breath in suspense. There was
movement of some kind back there--a cautious movement; seemingly the slow
advance of something across the floor, a dog perhaps. West's heart
throbbed with apprehension; suppose it was a dog, he had no means of
protection from the brute. Cold sweat tingled on his flesh; there was
nothing he could do, no place where he could go. The thing was moving
nearer; yet surely it could not be a dog; no dog would ever creep like
that. He could bear the strain no longer; it was beyond endurance.
"What's moving back there?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
There was a moment of utter silence; then, a man's voice said in low,
cautious tone.
"The fellow ain't dead, Mac; anyhow he seems able to talk yet."
"All right, we'll find out what he's got to say--go on along."
West sat up, his heart bounding with sudden remembrance.
"My God! McAdams is that you?"
"You have the name--who's speaking?"
"Matt West. Good God, but this is like a miracle. I'd played my last
card. Come here, one of you, and cut these strings.
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