"Any luck?"
"None," Holmes gasped, twisting desperately.
Our captors knew exactly what they were doing, securing us with cords that were cruelly tight – no chance whatsoever of our escaping.
Holmes glanced over his shoulder at the table, beginning to edge his chair backwards until it hit, raising his hands, groping blindly for the candle.
"You're going to burn yourself!"
"That is the least of my worries now, Watson!"
I watched anxiously as he tried to get the rope to catch fire.
His triumphant cry was suddenly drowned by my alarmed gasp.
"Look out – the candle!"
But it was too late, the candle had fallen, setting the spilled liquor on the table ablaze and then the tablecloth.
"Holmes!"
He twisted, finally freeing himself as the table went up just behind him. I bit my lip as his face convulsed in pain from the heat of the blaze, but he broke free, scrambling to his feet.
"Are you hurt, Holmes?"
He merely grunted, yanking so hard on my bonds that I winced.
Then they fell free and he dashed for the window, shattering it with his elbow, grabbing me and pushing me through the jagged opening.
Ten minutes later we were in a cab. Holmes slumped back painfully.
"How badly are you hurt?"
"My dear Watson, you know that if you play with fire you're bound to get burned."