"What? Then you really admit that there have been other victims?" I exclaimed.
"I have no actual knowledge," she declared, "only suspicions."
"Why are you friendly with them?" I asked. "What does your father say to such acquaintances?"
"I am friendly only under compulsion," she answered. "Ah! Mr. Biddulph, you cannot know how I hate the very sight or knowledge of those inhuman fiends. Their treatment of you is, in itself, sufficient proof of their pitiless plans."
"Tell me this, Sylvia," I said, after a second's pause. "Have you any knowledge of a man--a great friend of mine--named Jack Marlowe?"
Her face changed. It became paler, and I saw she was slightly confused.
"I--well, I believe we met once," she said. "His father lives somewhere down in Devonshire."
"Yes," I said quickly. "What do you know of him?"
"Well--our meeting was under rather curious circumstances. He is your friend, therefore please pardon me if I do not reply to your question," was her vague response.
"Then what do you anticipate from those men, Reckitt and Forbes?" I asked.
"Only evil--distinct evil," she replied. "They will return, and strike when you least expect attack."
"But if I do not go to the police, why should they fear me? They are quite welcome to the money they have stolen--so long as they allow me peace in the future."
"Which I fear they will not do," replied the girl, shaking her head.
"You speak very apprehensively," I said. "What is there really to fear? Perhaps it would be best if I went to the police at once. They would then dig over that neglected garden and reveal its secrets."
"No!" she cried again, starting wildly from her chair as though in sudden terror. "I beg of you not to do that, Mr. Biddulph. It would serve no purpose, and only create a great sensation. But the culprits would never be brought to justice. They are far too clever, and their conspiracies are too far-reaching. No, remain patient. Take the greatest care of your own personal safety--and you may yet be able to combat your enemies with their own weapons."
"I shall be able, Sylvia--providing that you assist me," I said.
She held her breath, and remained silent. She evidently feared them.
I tried to obtain from her some details of the occurrences of that night of horror, but she refused to satisfy my curiosity. Apparently she feared to incriminate herself. Could it be possible that she had only learnt at the last moment that it was I who was embraced in the next room by that fatal chair!