“Certainly. Pierre has come to be quite a friend of mine. He’s a good fellow all right.” There was a moment’s pause. Dick was rolling a cigarette, Sharkey furtively watching every expression on his face. “Well, the Frenchie played me a dirty trick when he threw that key away,” remarked the sleuth, rattling, the handcuffs behind his back. “I guess Pierre was resolved to take no chances,” replied Dick, grinning through the tobacco smoke as he surveyed the helpless bodyguard. “He only needed a pair of hobbles to complete the job.” A muttered curse came from Sharkey’s lips—but this was an aside. For Dick he had an insinuating smile. “You might get these blamed handcuffs off all right, Willoughby. Look at that big boulder there. If I set my hands across it, you might hammer through the chain. Or if you have a pistol, that might do the trick.” “No, I’ve got no pistol,” Dick replied. He did not notice the gleam of satisfaction in Sharkey’s eyes—the wolfish smile at the corners of his wolf-like teeth. At the moment he was looking around for a convenient stone that might serve as a hammer. “But I think I might break that chain all right with this,” he went on, as he stooped and picked up a heavy, sharp-edged fragment of granite from the rock-strewn ground. “Come along, then. Set your wrists just here. At least, we can try.” The trial succeeded—the slender steel strain stretched across the boulder soon yielded to the succession of battering blows. Sharkey flung his great big brawny arms aloft. He was still wearing the bracelets, but his hands were free. “Feels better, don’t it?” said Dick, with a sympathetic smile. “A damned sight better,” roared the sleuth, as he turned quickly round. “Now, young man, you are my prisoner. I arrest you for jail-breaking. There’s my star. I don’t say hands up, for I know you haven’t a gun.” As he spoke, Sharkey opened his coat so that the official badge might be displayed. Dick in his amazement stepped back, just one pace. Sharkey advanced, his high hands outstretched. “Make no trouble, now. You know I am only doing my duty.” “Duty be hanged,” cried Dick, as with a swift uppercut he caught his would-be captor on the jaw. Sharkey staggered, and Dick, with a right-arm swing, banged him on the temple, bowling him over like a ninepin. Sharkey was soon on his hands and knees; then dazed and tottering, he got onto his feet again. But Dick was watchfully waiting, and with sharp jabs, right and left, sent him down once more. The sleuth lay motionless now. Like a flash Dick grabbed the riata hanging from the saddle-horn of his pony, and without a moment’s loss of time had its coils around the arms and chest of the prostrate man, roping him like a thrown steer with all the skill of the trained cowboy. In a brief minute the knots were tied, and with the final clove-hitch the fallen Samson was turned over on his back. Sharkey’s eyes opened, glaring dully at his conqueror.