Ere I could recover myself or utter a word, the pair dashed towards me, seized my hands deftly and secured them behind the chair.

“What do you mean by this, you infernal blackguards!” I cried angrily. “Release me!”

They only grinned in triumph. I struggled to free my right hand, in order to get at my revolver. But it was held far too securely.

I saw that I had been cleverly entrapped!

The man with the pimply face placed his hand within my breast pocket and took therefrom its contents with such confidence that it appeared certain I had been watched while writing the cheque. He selected it from among my letters and papers, and, opening it, said in a tone of satisfaction—

“That’s all right—as far as it goes. But we must have another thousand.”

“You’ll have nothing from me,” I replied, sitting there powerless, yet defiant. “I don’t believe Marlowe has been here at all! It’s only a trap, and I’ve fallen into it!”

“You’ve paid your friend’s debts,” replied the man gruffly; “now you’ll pay your own.”

“I owe you nothing, you infernal swindler!” I responded quickly. “This is a pretty game you are playing—one which you’ve played before, it seems! The police shall know of this. It will interest them.”

“They won’t know through you,” laughed the fellow. “But we don’t want to discuss that matter. I’m just going to write out a cheque for one thousand, and you’ll sign it.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort!” I declared firmly.

“Oh yes, you will,” remarked the younger man. “You’ve got money, and you can easily afford a thousand.”

“I’ll not give you one single penny,” I declared. “And, further, I shall stop that cheque you’ve stolen from me.”

Reckitt had already seated himself, opened my cheque-book, and was writing out a draft.

When he had finished it he crossed to me, with the book and pen in hand, saying—

“Now you may as well just sign this at first, as at last.”

“I shall do no such thing,” was my answer. “You’ve entrapped me here, but you are holding me at your peril. You can’t frighten me into giving you a thousand pounds, for I haven’t it at the bank.”

“Oh yes, you have,” replied the man with the red face. “We’ve already taken the precaution to find out. We don’t make haphazard guesses, you know. Now sign it, and at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning you shall be released—after we have cashed your cheques.”

“Where is Marlowe?” I inquired.

“With the girl, I suppose.”

“What girl?”

“Well,” exclaimed the other, “her photograph is in the next room; perhaps you’d like to see it.”

“It does not interest me,” I replied.

But the fellow Forbes left the room for a moment and returned with a fine panel photograph in his hand. He held it before my gaze. I started in utter amazement.

It was the picture of Sylvia! The same that I had seen in Shuttleworth’s study.

“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!

“And supposing that I gave you the money, how do I know that you would keep faith with me?” I asked.

“We shall keep faith with you, never fear,” Reckitt replied, his sinister face broadening into a smile. “It is simply for you to pay for your release; or we shall hold you here—until you submit. Just your signature, and to-morrow at eleven you are a free man.”

“And if I refuse, what then?” I asked.

“If you refuse—well, I fear that you will ever regret it, that’s all. I can only tell you that it is not wise to refuse. We are not in the habit of being met with refusal—the punishment is too severe.” The man spoke calmly, leaning with his back against the table, the cheque and pen still in his hand.

“And if I sign, you will bring Sylvia here? You will promise me that—upon your word of honour?”

“Yes, we promise you,” was the man’s reply.

“I want to see Marlowe, if he is here.”

“I tell you he’s not here. He’s across the way with her.”

I believe, if I could have got to my revolver at that moment, I should have shot the fellow dead. I bit my lip, and remained silent.

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?”

I hesitated, much puzzled by the strangeness of the attitude of the pair. Their self-confidence was amazing.

“Sign it,” he urged. “Sign it in your own interests—and in hers.”

“Why in hers?”

“You will see, after you have appended your signature.”

“When I have seen her I will sign,” I replied at last; “but not before. You seem to have regarded me as a pigeon to pluck. But you’ll find out I’m a hawk before you’ve done with me.”

“I think not,” smiled the cool-mannered Reckitt. “Even if you are a hawk, you’re caged. You must admit that!”

“I shall shout murder, and alarm the police,” I threatened.

“Shout away, my dear fellow,” replied my captor. “No sound can be heard outside this room. Shriek! We shall like to hear you. You won’t have opportunity to do so very much longer.”

“Why?”

“Because refusal will bring upon you a fate more terrible than you have ever imagined,” was the fellow’s hard reply. “We are men of our word, remember! It is not wise to trifle with us.”

“And I am also a man of my word. You cannot obtain money from me by threats.”

“But we offer you a service in return—to bring Sylvia to you.”

“Where is her father?” I demanded.

“You’d better ask her,” replied Forbes, with a grin. “Sign this, and see her. She is anxious—very anxious to meet you.”

“How do you know that?”

“We know more than you think, Mr. Biddulph,” was the sharper’s reply.

His exterior was certainly that of a gentleman, in his well-cut dinner jacket and a fine diamond stud in his shirt.

I could only think that the collapsible chair in which I sat was worked by a lever from outside the room. There was a spy-hole somewhere, at which they could watch the actions of their victims, and take them unawares as I had been taken.

“And now,” asked Reckitt, “have you fully reflected upon the serious consequences of your refusal to sign this cheque?”

“I have,” was my unwavering reply. “Do as you will, I refuse to be blackmailed.”

“Your refusal will cause disaster to yourself—and to her! You will share the same fate—a horrible one. She tried to warn you, and you refused to heed her. So you will both experience the same horror.”

“What horror? I have no fear of you,” I said.

“He refuses,” Reckitt said, with a harsh laugh, addressing his accomplice. “We will now let him see what is in store for him—how we punish those who remain defiant. Bring in the table.”

Forbes disappeared for a moment and then returned, bearing a small round table upon which stood a silver cigar-box and a lighted candle.

The table he placed at my side, close to my elbow. Then Forbes took something from a drawer, and ere I was aware of it he had slipped a leathern collar over my head and strapped it to the back of the chair so that in a few seconds I was unable to move my head from side to side.

“What are you doing, you blackguards?” I cried in fierce anger. “You shall pay for this, I warrant.”

But they only laughed in triumph, for, held as I was, I was utterly helpless in their unscrupulous hands and unable to lift a finger in self-defence, my defiance must have struck them as ridiculous.

“Now,” said Reckitt, standing near the small table, “you see this!” and, leaning forward, he touched the cigar-box, the lid of which opened with a spring.

Next second something shot quite close to my face, startling me.

I looked, and instantly became filled with an inexpressible horror, for there, upon the table, lay a small, black, venomous snake. To its tail was attached a fine green silken cord, and this was, in turn, fastened to the candle. The wooden candle-stick was, I saw, screwed down to the table. The cord entered the wax candle about two inches lower than the flame.

I gave a cry of horror, whereat both men laughed heartily.

“Now,” said Reckitt, “I promised you an unexpected surprise. There it is! In half-an-hour the flame will reach the cord, and sever it. Then the snake will strike. That half-hour will give you ample time for reflection.”

“You fiends!” I cried, struggling desperately to free myself. In doing so I moved my head slightly, when the snake again darted at me like a flash, only falling short about an inch from my cheek.

The reptile fell back, recoiled itself, and with head erect, its cruel, beady eyes watching me intently, sat up ready to strike again.

The blood froze in my veins. I was horrified, held there only one single inch from death.

“We wish you a very good night,” laughed Forbes, as both he and his companion walked towards the door. “You will have made a closer acquaintance with the snake ere we cash your cheque in the morning.”

“Yes,” said Reckitt, turning upon me with a grin. “And Sylvia too will share the same fate as yourself, for daring to warn you against us!”

“No!” I cried; “spare her, spare her!” I implored.

But the men had already passed out of the room, locking the door securely after them.

I lay back silent, motionless, listening, not daring to move a muscle because of that hideous reptile closely guarding me.

I suppose ten minutes must have passed—ten of the most awful minutes of terror and disgust I have ever experienced in all my life—then a sound broke the dead stillness of the night.

I heard a woman’s loud, piercing scream—a scream of sudden horror.

Sylvia’s voice! It seemed to emanate from the room beyond!

Again it was repeated. I heard her shriek distinctly—

“Ah! No, spare me! Not that—not that!”

Only a wall divided us, yet I was powerless, held there face to face with a terrible and revolting death, unable to save her, unable to raise my hand in self-defence.

She shrieked again, in an agony of terror.

I lay there breathless, petrified by horror.