“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?”