Sylvia sank into a chair, while I stood upon the hearth-rug facing her, eager to hear her explanation.

Her hands were clasped as she raised her wonderful blue eyes to mine.  Yes, her beauty was perfect ­more perfect than any I had ever seen in all my wandering, erratic life.

“Why do those men still intend that I shall die?” I asked.  “Now that I know the truth I shall remain wary.”

“Ah, yes,” she responded.  “But they will take you unawares.  You do not know the devilish cunning and ingenuity of such men as they, who live upon their wits, and are utterly unscrupulous.”

“Well, what do they now intend?” I asked, much interested, for it seemed that she knew very much more than she would admit.

“You have escaped,” she said, looking straight into my face.  “They naturally fear that you will tell the police.”

“I shall not do that ­not at present, at least,” I replied.  “I am keeping my own counsel.”

“Yes.  But cannot you see that while you live you are a menace to their dastardly plans?  They dare not return to that deserted house in Bayswater.”

“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?”

“Nothing.  We met only once.”

“Where?”

“Well ­our meeting was under rather curious circumstances.  He is your friend, therefore please pardon me if I do not reply to your question,” was her vague response.

“Then what do you anticipate from those men, Reckitt and Forbes?” I asked.

“Only evil ­distinct evil,” she replied.  “They will return, and strike when you least expect attack.”

“But if I do not go to the police, why should they fear me?  They are quite welcome to the money they have stolen ­so long as they allow me peace in the future.”

“Which I fear they will not do,” replied the girl, shaking her head.

“You speak very apprehensively,” I said.  “What is there really to fear?  Perhaps it would be best if I went to the police at once.  They would then dig over that neglected garden and reveal its secrets.”

“No!” she cried again, starting wildly from her chair as though in sudden terror.  “I beg of you not to do that, Mr. Biddulph.  It would serve no purpose, and only create a great sensation.  But the culprits would never be brought to justice.  They are far too clever, and their conspiracies are too far-reaching.  No, remain patient.  Take the greatest care of your own personal safety ­and you may yet be able to combat your enemies with their own weapons.”

“I shall be able, Sylvia ­providing that you assist me,” I said.

She held her breath, and remained silent.  She evidently feared them.

I tried to obtain from her some details of the occurrences of that night of horror, but she refused to satisfy my curiosity.  Apparently she feared to incriminate herself.  Could it be possible that she had only learnt at the last moment that it was I who was embraced in the next room by that fatal chair!

Yet it was all so puzzling, so remarkable.  Surely a girl with such a pure, open, innocent face could not be the accomplice of dastardly criminals!  She was their friend.  That much she had admitted to me.  But her friendship with them was made under compulsion.  She urged me not to go to the police.  Why?

Did she fear that she herself would be implicated in a series of dark and terrible crimes?

“Where is your father?” I inquired presently.

“In Scotland,” was her prompt reply.  “I heard from him at the Caledonian Hotel, at Edinburgh, last Friday.  I am staying here with Mr. Shuttleworth until his return.”

Was it not strange that she should be guest of a quiet-mannered country parson, if she were actually the accomplice of a pair of criminals!  I felt convinced that Shuttleworth knew the truth ­that he could reveal a very remarkable story ­if he only would.

“Your father is a friend of Mr. Shuttleworth ­eh?” I asked.

She nodded in the affirmative.  Then she stood with her gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the sunlit lawn outside.

Mystery was written upon her fair countenance.  She held a dread secret which she was determined not to reveal.  She knew of those awful crimes committed in that dark house in Bayswater, but her intention seemed to be to shield at all hazards her dangerous “friends.”

“Sylvia,” I said tenderly at last, again taking her hand in mine, “why cannot you be open and frank with me?” She allowed her hand to lie soft and inert in mine, sighing the while, her gaze still fixed beyond as though her thoughts were far away.  “I love you,” I whispered.  “Cannot you see how you puzzle me? ­for you seem to be my friend at one moment, and at the next the accomplice of my enemies.”

“I have told you that you must never love me, Mr. Biddulph,” was her low reply, as she withdrew her hand slowly, but very firmly.

“Ah! no,” I cried.  “Do not take offence at my words.  I’m aware that I’m a hopeless blunderer in love.  All I know, Sylvia, is that my only thought is of you.  And I ­I’ve wondered whether you, on your part, can ever entertain a spark of affection for me?”

She was silent, her white lips pressed close together, a strange expression crossing her features.  Again she held her breath, as though what I had said had caused her great surprise.  Then she answered ­

“How can you love me?  Am I not, after all, a mere stranger?”

“I know you sufficiently well,” I cried, “to be aware that for me there exists no other woman.  I fear I’m a blunt man.  It is my nature.  Forgive me, Sylvia, for speaking the truth, but ­well, as a matter of fact, I could not conceal the truth any longer.”

“And you tell me this, after ­after all that has happened!” she faltered in a low, tremulous voice, as I again took her tiny hand in mine.

“Yes ­because I truly and honestly love you,” I said, “because ever since we have met I have found myself thinking of you ­recalling you ­nay, dreaming of happiness at your side.”

She raised her splendid eyes, and looked into mine for a moment; then, sighing, shook her head sadly.

“Ah!  Mr. Biddulph,” she responded in a curious, strained voice, “passion may be perilously misleading.  Ask yourself if you are not injudicious in making this declaration ­to a woman like myself?”

“Why?” I cried.  “Why should it be injudicious?  I trust you, because ­because I owe my life to you ­because you have already proved yourself my devoted little friend.  What I beg and pray is that your friendship may, in course of time, ripen into love ­that you may reciprocate my affection ­that you may really love me!”

A slight hardness showed at the corners of her small mouth.  Her eyes were downcast, and she swallowed the lump that arose in her throat.

She was silent, standing rigid and motionless.

Suddenly a great and distressing truth occurred to me.  Did she believe that I pitied her?  I hoped not.  Any woman of common sensibility would almost die of shame at the thought of being loved out of pity; and, what is more, she would think none the better of the man who pitied her.  The belief that “pity melts the heart to love” is an unfounded one.

So I at once endeavoured to remove the wrong impression which I feared I had conveyed.

What mad, impetuous words I uttered I can scarcely tell.  I know that I raised her soft white hand to my lips and kissed it fervently, repeating my avowal and craving a word of hope from her lips.

But she again shook her head, and with sadness responded in a low, faltering tone ­

“It is quite impossible, Mr. Biddulph.  Leave me ­let us forget all you have said.  It will be better thus ­far better for us both.  You do not know who or what I am; you ­”

“I do not know, neither do I care!” I cried passionately.  “All I know, Sylvia, is that my heart is yours ­that I have loved only once in my life, and it is now!”

Her slim fingers played nervously with the ribbon upon her cool summer gown, but she made no response.

“I know I have not much to recommend me,” I went on.  “Perhaps I am too hulking, too English.  You who have lived so much abroad are more used, no doubt, to the elegant manners and the prettily turned compliments of the foreigner than the straight speech of a fellow like myself.  Yet I swear that my only thought has been of you, that I love you with all my heart ­with all my soul.”

I caught her hand and again looked into her eyes, trying to read what response lay hidden in their depths.

I felt her tremble.  For a moment she seemed unable to reply.  The silence was unbroken save for the drowsy hum of the insects in the summer heat outside, while the sweet perfume of the flowers filled our nostrils.  In the tension of those moments each second seemed an hour.  You who have experienced the white heat of the love-flame can only know my eager, breathless apprehension, the honest whole-heartedness of my declaration.  Perhaps, in your case, the flames are all burnt out, but even now you can tell of the white core and centre of fire within you.  Years may have gone, but it still remains ­the sweet memory of your well-beloved.

“Tell me, Sylvia,” I whispered once more.  “Tell me, will you not break down this strange invisible barrier which you have set up between us?  Forget the past, as I have already forgotten it ­and be mine ­my own!”

She burst into tears.

“Ah!” she cried.  “If I only could ­if I only dared!”

“Will you not dare to do it ­for my sake?” I asked very quietly.  “Will you not promise to be mine?  Let me stand your friend ­your champion.  Let me defend you against your enemies.  Let me place myself beside you and defy them.”

“Ah, no!” she gasped, “not to defy them.  Defiance would only bring death ­death to both of us!”

“Your love, Sylvia, would mean life and happiness, not death ­to me ­to both of us!” I cried.  “Will you not give me your promise?  Let our love be in secret, if you so desire ­only let us love each other.  Promise me!” I cried, my arm stealing around her narrow waist.  “Promise me that you will try and love me, and I, too, will promise to be worthy of your affection.”

For a moment she remained silent, her handsome head downcast.

Then slowly, with a sweet love-look upon her beautiful countenance, she raised her face to mine, and then for the first time our lips met in a fierce and passionate caress.

Thus was our solemn compact sealed.