Bowen had dreamed of millions, when he believed the mine to be good. Now that it was a question of at best getting out from under, there was still hope of cleaning up a tidy fortune. But he would have to phone Gus Saunders before two o’clock! Cautiously holding the edged blade in his almost senseless fingers, Bob Bowen fumbled with it for the cord that bound his wrists behind him. He could not make the keen blade reach. Just as he realized this, just as he realized that the job was not going to be so easy as it had seemed, he heard Cheadle enter the adjoining room. “Done it, Henderson!” Cheadle apparently set down a basket, for there was a rattle of dishes. “There’s lunch.” “You fixed it all right? Sure it’s safe?” demanded the eager voice of Henderson. “Safe as shootin’, pardner! At two o’clock the storm busts, and Lord help us if we ain’t somewheres else!” “Leave that to me. What’s this you got to drink—milk! You’re a nice one, you are! Bringing me milk to drink—” “It’s all you get. I mean that you shall keep a clear head to-day, pardner. No booze in yours until we’ve cashed in! Now lay out the grub. Have you looked at _him_ in there? Has he waked up yet?” “Don’t know and don’t care,” grunted Henderson. Cheadle came striding through the doorway. Forewarned, Bowen closed his hand over the bit of rusty steel in his palm. He looked up at Cheadle, who bent over and examined his bonds. “Don’t I get something to eat?” hoarsely demanded Bowen. “Give me a drink at least—” “You shut up.” Cheadle bestowed upon him a gentle kick. “You’re blamed lucky to get off at all!” Cheadle strode back to his partner in crime. Henderson began retailing reports that had come over the phone, but now Bowen paid no heed to the mumble of voices. Working frantically, Bowen strove to reach his wrist-cords with the edged steel. At first he found it practically impossible. Twice the blade slipped in his numbed fingers and struck into his flesh. Fearful lest he sever a wrist-artery, he took more caution. At length he got a grip that held upon the thin steel, and to his keen joy felt the tip of the blade touch a cord. Slowly it bit through. A slight tug told him that the strand had parted. Dropping the blade, he worked his arms until the severed cord loosened. Scarce sensible of the motion, scarce able to make his brain control the congested members, Bowen drew his arms from beneath him. He was free—but for the moment, helpless. He could not move his hands; they were swollen and purpled, quite without feeling. For a while he lay, content to slowly chafe the life back into his fingers. With an effort he sat up, found the razor-blade where he had dropped it, and freed his ankles. Still he could do no more than strive to bring the banished blood back into hands and feet. Motion intensified his thirst, which seemed burning the throat out of him! But he made no sound.