Five minutes later he came face
to face with Kent in the living room. "Not a trace of any kind,"
declared Kent. "It's the same as the other night; the man's gone.
It's - it's positively uncanny."
Ferguson's face was red from mortification and his exertions
combined.
"The fellow must have slipped from the room by that other door and
out through the living room as we came down the hail," he said.
"Did you shut the door of the apartment, Mr. Kent, before coming
down here to look at the prisoner?"
"Yes." Kent led the way back to the dining room. "Did you
recognize the man, Ferguson?"
"No." The detective swore softly as he stared about the room.
"The lights went out just as I tackled him."
"It was beastly luck that the fuse burned out at that second,"
groaned Kent. "Fortune was with him in that; but how did the man
get free of the handcuffs?" pointing to them still lying in the
chair. "We can't attribute that to luck, unless" - staring keenly
at Ferguson -" unless you did not snap them on the man's wrists,
after all.
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