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.”