I now felt no doubt that this was the trap of which Sylvia had given me warning on that moonlit terrace beside the Italian lake. By some unaccountable means she knew what was intended against me. This clever trapping of men was apparently a regular trade of theirs!
If I could but gain time I felt that I might outwit them. Yet, sitting there like a trussed fowl, I must have cut a pretty sorry figure. How many victims had, like myself, sat there and been “bled”?
“Come,” exclaimed the red-faced adventurer impatiently, “we are losing time. Are you going to sign the cheque, or not?”
“I shall not,” was my firm response. “You already have stolen one cheque of mine.”
“And we shall cash it when your bank opens in the morning, my dear sir,” remarked Forbes airily.
“And make yourselves scarce afterwards, eh? But I’ve had a good look at you, remember; I could identify you anywhere,” I said.
“You won’t have that chance, I’m afraid,” declared Reckitt meaningly. “You must think we’re blunderers, if you contemplate that!” and he grinned at his companion.
“Now,” he added, turning again to me; “for the last time I ask you if you will sign this cheque I have written.”
“And for the last time I tell you that you are a pair of blackguards, and that I will do nothing of the sort.”
“Not even if we bring the girl here—to you?”