movement he cut the cord holding Kestner's right wrist so firmly down to the arm of the chair.
Before Kestner could cry out, before even he could raise that throbbing and stiffened right arm, Lambert had caught him by the hand, forced the prisoner's fingers about the grip of the revolver, and covered those flaccid fingers with his own muscular and bony hand.
It was not until he had forced up Kestner's inert right forearm that the Secret Agent fully awakened to the imminence of his peril. As always, he had counted on some intervention, on some moment of relaxed vigilance when his chance should come. But here there seemed to be no chance.
He saw, in a flash, what it all meant, and how quickly it could all be over. His position was against him. The suspended circulation of that over-bound right arm was against him. But still he fought, fought every inch of the way, with every jot of strength at his command.
The third man stood watching the tableau, his impassive and olive-skinned face giving no sign of heightened emotion as the contending forces centralised in those two quivering arms came into the equilibrium of nicely matched strength. Then one arm weakened a trifle. The dark-barrelled weapon of gun-metal was slowly forced further and further upward.
Kestner knew quite well what it meant. But he was now powerless to withstand that cruel pressure. He knew that the forefinger of that muscular hand, held so firmly over his own, would contract the moment the barrel was levelled in the right direction. He felt it was all but useless to cry out. Under no condition
