Hammersley now puffed a volume of smoke from his pipe and slowly wriggled his left arm forward under him, so that he could see the knot that tied his wrists. It was a large knot, but vulnerable. He puffed more smoke, meanwhile watching the top of the head of Senf. As it did not move, he lay over half upon his back, and, taking care not to disturb the book, slowly advanced his arms behind him toward the blaze of the candle. The knot of the rope caught and blazed, but the candle sputtered, and he quickly withdrew his hands, sending a volume of smoke from his pipe to neutralize the odor. Senf sniffed the air curiously. “Something is burning,” Hammersley heard him mutter. “My pipe,” he explained carefully. “It is a vile tobacco. But it will go out of the crack at the window.” “Will you not try mine, Herr Hammersley? Perhaps it is better.” “No, thanks. Nothing much matters to a dead man.” His guardian settled back in his chair, and Hammersley repeated his maneuver more daringly, his own pipe seething like a furnace. “You are a furious smoker, Herr Hammersley,” said Senf again. “It is the way one smokes, _mein Junger_, when one smokes for the last time,” he replied. But the fellow got up, sniffing and walking around the room. “It is a most curious tobacco,” he muttered. Hammersley’s wrists pained him where his bonds had cut, but he kept his gaze upon the page of the book, and Senf sat in his chair again. A strong pull of his arms and Hammersley felt the tension relax. His bonds came looser and after a few more efforts his wrists were free. His heart was jumping and he feared a stray glance of the watcher might see the throbbing of the blood at his temples, but he clasped his hands behind him and waited, slipping the sundered rope beneath a fold of the blanket. Two--three minutes passed and Senf did not move. The untying of his feet might prove a difficult matter, but he made the venture, working slowly and patiently, his gaze on Senf’s head. Then, as the knot yielded a little to his prying fingers, his gaze quickly concentrated on it. In his efforts he must have made a sound or a suspicious movement of the shoulders, for when he looked up he saw the head of Max Senf projecting above the tailboard of the bed, his large eyes protruding with amazement. They gazed at each other for a tense fraction of a second and then sprang upright. Hammersley threw his feet out upon the floor and leaped for the man, catching him around the waist so that he could not draw a weapon. His legs were useless and the only chance he had, a desperate one at best, was to drag the man to the floor by sheer weight and there perhaps throttle him. Senf beat with his heavy fists on Hammersley’s head and shoulders, and finally forced him backwards upon the floor, falling with him, but Hammersley still clung with frantic grip which the man could not shake off. But at last he managed to get his fingers around Hammersley’s throat and tried to force his head back.