About an hour had passed when he heard the key softly turned, and the door opened.  It was Annette.  Tommy’s heart beat a little faster.  He had forgotten the girl.  Was it possible that she had come to his help?

Suddenly he heard Conrad’s voice: 

“Come out of it, Annette.  He doesn’t want any supper to-night.”

“Oui, oui, je sais bien.  But I must take the other tray.  We need the things on it.”

“Well, hurry up,” growled Conrad.

Without looking at Tommy the girl went over to the table, and picked up the tray.  She raised a hand and turned out the light.

“Curse you”—­Conrad had come to the door—­“why did you do that?”

“I always turn it out.  You should have told me.  Shall I relight it, Monsieur Conrad?”

“No, come on out of it.”

“Le beau petit monsieur,” cried Annette, pausing by the bed in the darkness.  “You have tied him up well, hein?  He is like a trussed chicken!” The frank amusement in her tone jarred on the boy; but at that moment, to his amazement, he felt her hand running lightly over his bonds, and something small and cold was pressed into the palm of his hand.

“Come on, Annette.”

“Mais me voila.”

The door shut.  Tommy heard Conrad say: 

“Lock it and give me the key.”

The footsteps died away.  Tommy lay petrified with amazement.  The object Annette had thrust into his hand was a small penknife, the blade open.  From the way she had studiously avoided looking at him, and her action with the light, he came to the conclusion that the room was overlooked.  There must be a peep-hole somewhere in the walls.  Remembering how guarded she had always been in her manner, he saw that he had probably been under observation all the time.  Had he said anything to give himself away?  Hardly.  He had revealed a wish to escape and a desire to find Jane Finn, but nothing that could have given a clue to his own identity.  True, his question to Annette had proved that he was personally unacquainted with Jane Finn, but he had never pretended otherwise.  The question now was, did Annette really know more?  Were her denials intended primarily for the listeners?  On that point he could come to no conclusion.

But there was a more vital question that drove out all others.  Could he, bound as he was, manage to cut his bonds?  He essayed cautiously to rub the open blade up and down on the cord that bound his two wrists together.  It was an awkward business, and drew a smothered “Ow” of pain from him as the knife cut into his wrist.  But slowly and doggedly he went on sawing to and fro.  He cut the flesh badly, but at last he felt the cord slacken.  With his hands free, the rest was easy.  Five minutes later he stood upright with some difficulty, owing to the cramp in his limbs.  His first care was to bind up his bleeding wrist.  Then he sat on the edge of the bed to think.  Conrad had