He made the effort, doubtfully at first, but hope came as the sharp edge began to tear at the rope. It was slow work, awkward, requiring all the strength of his arms, yet he felt sure of progress. He could feel the strands yield little by little, and redoubled his efforts. It hurt, the rope lacerating his wrists, and occasionally the jagged steel cut into the flesh cruelly, but the thought of freedom outweighed the pain, and he persevered manfully. At last, exercising all his muscle, the last frayed strand snapped. His wrists were bleeding, and the hands numb, but the severed cord lay on the floor and he again had the free use of his arms. The sudden freedom brought new hope and courage. He listened at the door, testing the knob cautiously. There was no yielding, and for the moment no sound reached him from without. The woman was doubtless there on guard, and any effort he might make to break down the door would only bring the whole gang upon him. Unarmed, he could not hope to fight them all. As he stood there, hesitating, unable to determine what to attempt, he became aware of a throbbing under foot, increasing in intensity. West knew instantly what it meant--they were testing out the engine; if all worked well, the boat would cast off. He sprang back to the port and stared out, eagerly hoping that, as they swept out into the lake, he might find some opportunity to communicate with some one on the pier. Perhaps by this time Mac would have arrived, and be watching their departure, unable to intervene, as he had no warrant for arrest, or any definite knowledge that the yacht was being used for a criminal purpose. He had not long to wait. Hurrying steps echoed along the deck; a voice shouted out some order, and the end of a loosened rope dropped splashing into the water astern; the boat trembled to the pulsations of the engine, and West realized that it was at first slowly, then more swiftly, slipping away into the broad water. Already he could perceive the white wake astern, and, an instant later, as the turn to the right widened, he had a glimpse of the pier, already separated from him by a broad expanse of trembling water. Above the noise his voice would scarcely reach that distance. A crowd of people stood there watching, clinging along the edge of the promenade--McAdams was not among them. It would be useless to strive to attract their attention; not one among them would comprehend; even if they did, not one of them could help. He still stood there, gazing back at the fast receding pier, gradually becoming blurred in the distance, but hopelessly. He knew now he must face his fate alone. CHAPTER XXIII THE FATE OF A PRISONER