“You know her—eh?” remarked Reckitt, with a grim smile.
“Yes,” I gasped. “Where is she?”
“Across the road—with your friend Jack Marlowe.”
“It’s a lie! A confounded lie! I won’t believe it,” I cried. Yet at that moment I realized the ghastly truth, that I had tumbled into the hidden pitfall against which both Shuttleworth and Sylvia had warned me.
Could it be possible, I asked myself, that Sylvia—my adored Sylvia—had some connection with these blackguards—that she had been aware of their secret intentions?
“Sign this cheque, and you shall see her if you wish,” said the man who had written out the draft. “She will remain with you here till eleven to-morrow.”
“Why should I give you a thousand pounds?” I demanded.
“Is not a thousand a small price to pay for the service we are prepared to render you—to return to you your lost lady-love?” queried the fellow.
I was dying with anxiety to see her, to speak with her, to hold her hand. Had she not warned me against this cunningly-devised trap, yet had I not foolishly fallen into it? They had followed me to England, and run me to earth at home!