Pete turned the lamp low and placed it on the floor at his feet, so that
it should not unduly shape him against the window; he pulled gently on
the line. It gave; a guarded whistle came softly from the dark shadow of
the jail. Pete detached the captive balloon, with a blessing, and pulled
in the fishline. Knotted to it was a stout cord, and in the knot was a
small piece of paper, rolled cigarette fashion. Pete untied the knot; he
dropped his coil of fishline out of the window, first securing the
stronger cord by a turn round his hand lest he should inadvertently drop
that as well; he held the paper to the light, and read the message:

Waiting for you, with car, two blocks north. Destroy MS.

Pete pulled up the cord, hand over hand, and was presently rewarded by a
small hacksaw, eminently suited for cutting bars; he drew in the slack
again and this time came to the end of the cord, to which was fastened a
strong rope. He drew this up noiselessly and laid the coils on the floor.
Then he penciled a note, in turn:

Clear out. Will join you later.

He tied this missive on his cord, together with the cigar clipper, and
lowered them from the window. There was a signaling tug at the cord; Pete
dropped it.

Pete dressed himself; he placed a chair under the window; then he
extinguished the lamp, took the saw, and prepared to saw out the bars.
But it was destined to be otherwise. Even as he raised the saw, he
stiffened in his tracks, listening; his blood tingled to his finger tips.
He heard a footstep on the stair, faint, guarded, but unmistakable. It
came on, slowly, stealthily.