"That grave was prepared for both of us," she said in a calm, reflective voice.
"Then how did you escape?" I inquired, with curiosity.
"I do not know. I can only guess."
"May I not know?" I asked eagerly.
"When I have confirmed my belief, I will tell you," she replied.
"Then let us dismiss the subject. It is horrible, gruesome. Look how lovely and bright the world is outside. Let us live in peace and in happiness. Let us turn aside these grim shadows which have lately fallen upon us."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, with a sigh, "you are indeed generous to me, Mr.
Biddulph. But could you be so generous, I wonder, if you knew the actual truth? Alas! I fear you would not. Instead of remaining my friend, you would hate me--just--just as I hate myself!"
"Sylvia," I said, placing my hand again tenderly upon her shoulder and trying to calm her, and looking earnestly into her blue, wide-open eyes, "I shall never hate you. On the contrary, let me confess, now and openly," I whispered, "let me tell you that I--I love you!"
She started, her lips parted at the suddenness of my impetuous declaration, and stood for a moment, motionless as a statue, pale and rigid.
Then I felt a convulsive tremor run through her, and her breast heaved and fell rapidly. She placed her hand to her heart, as though to calm the rising tempest of emotion within her. Her breath came and went rapidly.
"Love me!" she echoed in a strange, hoa.r.s.e tone. "Ah! no, Mr.
Biddulph, no, a thousand times no! You do not know what you are saying. Recall those words--I beg of you!"
And I saw by her hard, set countenance and the strange look in her eyes that she was deadly in earnest.
"Why should I recall them?" I cried, my hand still upon her shoulder.
"You are not my enemy, Sylvia, even though you may be the friend of my enemies. I love you, and I fear nothing--nothing!"
"Hush! Do not say that," she protested very quietly.
"Why?"
"Because--well, because even though you have escaped, they----" and she hesitated, her lips set as though unable to articulate the truth.
"They what?" I demanded.
"Because, Mr. Biddulph--because, alas! I know these men only too well.
You have triumphed; but yours is, I fear, but a short-lived victory.
They still intend that you shall die!"
"How do you know that?" I asked quickly.
"Listen," she said hoa.r.s.ely. "I will tell you."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE DEATH KISS
Sylvia sank into a chair, while I stood upon the hearth-rug facing her, eager to hear her explanation.
Her hands were clasped as she raised her wonderful blue eyes to mine.
Yes, her beauty was perfect--more perfect than any I had ever seen in all my wandering, erratic life.
"Why do those men still intend that I shall die?" I asked. "Now that I know the truth I shall remain wary."
"Ah, yes," she responded. "But they will take you unawares. You do not know the devilish cunning and ingenuity of such men as they, who live upon their wits, and are utterly unscrupulous."
"Well, what do they now intend?" I asked, much interested, for it seemed that she knew very much more than she would admit.
"You have escaped," she said, looking straight into my face. "They naturally fear that you will tell the police."
"I shall not do that--not at present, at least," I replied. "I am keeping my own counsel."
"Yes. But cannot you see that while you live you are a menace to their dastardly plans? They dare not return to that deserted house in Bayswater."
"Where are they now?"
"Abroad, I believe. They always take care to have an outlet for escape," she answered. "Ah! you don"t know what a formidable combination they are. They snap their fingers at the police of Europe."
"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?"
"Nothing. We met only once."
"Where?"
"Well--our meeting was under rather curious circ.u.mstances. He is your friend, therefore please pardon me if I do not reply to your question," was her vague response.
"Then what do you antic.i.p.ate from those men, Reckitt and Forbes?" I asked.