find out. We don't make haphazard guesses, you
know. Now sign it, and at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning you shall
be released--after we have cashed your cheques."

"Where is Marlowe?" I inquired.

"With the girl, I suppose."

"What girl?"

"Well," exclaimed the other, "her photograph is in the next room;
perhaps you'd like to see it."

"It does not interest me," I replied.

But the fellow Forbes left the room for a moment and returned with a
fine panel photograph in his hand. He held it before my gaze. I
started in utter amazement.

It was the picture of Sylvia! The same that I had seen in
Shuttleworth's study.

"You know her--eh?" remarked Reckitt, with a grim smile.

"Yes," I gasped. "Where is she?"

"Across the road--with your friend Jack Marlowe."

"It's a lie! A confounded lie! I won't believe it," I cried. Yet at
that moment I realized the ghastly truth, that I had tumbled into the
hidden pitfall against which both Shuttleworth and Sylvia had warned
me.

Could it be possible, I asked myself, that Sylvia--my adored
Sylvia--had some connection with these blackguards--that she had been
aware of their secret intentions?

"Sign this cheque, and you shall see her if you wish," said the man
who had written out the draft. "She will remain with you here till
eleven to-morrow."

"Why should I give you a thousand pounds?" I demanded.

"Is not a thousand a small price to pay for the service we are
prepared to render you--to return to you your lost lady-love?" queried
the fellow.

I was dying with anxiety to see her, to speak with her, to hold her
hand. Had she not warned me against this cunningly-devised trap, yet
had I not foolishly fallen into it? They had followed me to England,
and run me to earth at home!

"And supposing that I gave you the money, how do I know that you would
keep faith with me?" I asked.

"We shall keep faith with you, never fear," Reckitt replied, his
sinister face broadening into a smile. "It is simply for you to pay
for your release; or we shall hold you here--until you submit. Just
your signature, and to-morrow at eleven you are a free man."

"And if I refuse, what then?" I asked.

"If you refuse--well, I fear that you will ever regret it, that's all.
I can only tell you that it is not wise to refuse. We are not in the
habit of being met with refusal--the punishment is too severe." The
man spoke calmly, leaning with his back against the table, the cheque
and pen still