Pringle.
Well, I know that Ventimore is associated with an elderly Oriental who possesses extraordinary will-power. This very morning, in Ventimore's own office, they played a highly unprofessional and discreditable trick between them on your own godfather, Mr. Wackerbath.
Sylvia.
On godfather! No, no, I'm sure Horace had nothing to do with that!
Pringle.
I was there—and he evidently had a great deal to do with it. I thought at the time it was hypnotism—but it's clear enough now that this confederate of Ventimore's is a powerful and most unscrupulous magician.
Sylvia.
[Springing up indignantly, and crossing to fireplace.] I won't hear any more! You're trying to make me doubt Horace again—but you can't! you can't! I know he'd never send a magician to hurt father! [As Horace enters from the hall, looking pale and wild.] Ah! Horace, you needn't tell me! You at least have no share in what has happened!
Horace.
[Going to her and taking both her hands.] Darling! For Heaven's sake tell me what has happened?