CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FLAME OF THE CANDLE
I shuddered at the horrible fate to which those scoundrels had abandoned me.
Again the cruel flat head of the snake darted forth viciously to within a single inch of my left cheek. I tried to draw back, but to move was impossible, held as I was by that leathern collar, made expressly for securing the head immovable.
My eyes were fixed upon the steady candle-flame. It was burning lower and lower each moment. I watched it in fascination. Each second I grew nearer that terrible, revolting end.
What had happened to Sylvia? I strained my ears to catch any further sound. But there was none. The house was now silent as the grave.
That pair of scoundrels had stolen my cheque, and in the morning, after my death, would cash it and escape with the proceeds!
I glanced around that weird room. How many previous victims had sat in that fatal chair and awaited death as I was waiting, I wondered? The whole plot betrayed a devilish ingenuity and cunning. Its very character showed that the conspirators were no ordinary criminals—they were past-masters in crime.