the stairs behind his head. Then he realized that some one was looking
into the room. Then a voice spoke. It was Millard's, though scarcely
recognizable on account of its huskiness.

"It's a fearful thing to do, Benson, but--but I can't help it! If you
only knew what it means to me to win!"

Then followed a moment of utter silence. Jack could hear his own heart
beating, as he fancied he could hear that of his persecutor. Then
there was another sound, as though some light-weight metallic object
had fallen to the floor.

"Good-bye, old chap! I--I respect you for your calm grit--that's
all I can say."

There was the sound of a quick turn, then soft footsteps. Jack knew
that Millard had fled.

"He respects me for my 'calm grit'!" laughed Jack, grimly--almost
hysterically. "Doesn't the scoundrel know that I'm all but frozen
into the torpor of dread?"

Then, just as suddenly, an anguished "oh!" broke from the boy's lips, to
be followed, instantly, by a tremor of hope.

For, except at the time when interrupted by Millard's return, the young
submarine captain had been fighting savagely at the bonds behind his
back. Now, he fancied, he heard or felt a single strand giving way.

"I've got to get out of this quickly, if at all!" quavered the boy,